No Fixed Address
It can take a lot of driving and a robust vehicle to visit the historic buildings of Kyrgyzstan. We managed to visit all of them over a 9 day visit. In the UK, that would be pretty amazing; there are over 370,000 structures on the Heritage list for England alone. But in Kyrgyzstan, our guides informed us, there are only three monuments regarded as heritage buildings. Kyrgyzstan is great on archaeology, but very light on early architecture.
This lack of old structures is largely due to Kyrgyzstan’s social and geographical history: this bit of central Asia was largely about nomads until well into the 19th century. Despite being traversed by the ‘silk road’ trading routes between China and Turkey, despite sharing a border with Uzbekistan (a settled, farming country rich in trade and Islamic architecture with legendary cities such as Bukhara, Samarkand and Khiva), Kyrgyzstan is startlingly different. Kyrgyzstan’s heritage is about wide open spaces, about seasonal movement, and about yurts, not houses. It takes quite a lot of getting used to.
So why is the nomadic landscape so hard to ‘read’? What’s different from any other grazed hillside? Most Europeans are very familiar with the bi-annual transhumance of domestic animals: up in spring time to those picturesque, mountain meadows, leaving the lowlands to grow hay for winter fodder; down in the autumn as the days shorten and the uplands prepare for snow.
But no, that’s not the same as nomadic. Down in those European valleys are quaint farm houses with barns and cow sheds, villages, churches and inns, where humans and livestock can overwinter in permanent structures. This isn’t part of a truly nomadic tradition.
So what is a nomad? Wikipedia’s definition seems as good as any:
‘A nomad is a member of a community without fixed habitation who regularly moves to and from the same areas. Such groups include hunter-gatherers, pastoral nomads (owning livestock), tinkers and trader nomads. In the twentieth century, the population of nomadic pastoral tribes slowly decreased, reaching an estimated 30–40 million nomads in the world as of 1995.’ [Terroir’s highlighting] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nomad
Trying to locate information on the current status of nomads in Kyrgyzstan is difficult. Understandably, many of the websites which offer information are those promoting tourism and selling ‘experiences’ in Kyrgyzstan. We have no problem with that - we ourselves were tourists and glad to be supporting the Kyrgyz economy - but the sources of the tourist sites’ data are unreferenced and hard to verify. One such site suggests that there are still 4.4 million Kyrgyz nomads, ‘who mostly live in Kyrgyzstan’. Assuming that the current population of Kyrgyzstan (not all of which are ethnic Kyrgyz, of course) is about 6.7 million people (depending on which website you check), then about half the Republic’s population could be classified as nomadic. From what we experienced, however, we assume that the continued use of the term ‘nomads’ is somewhat misleading as most families now have permanent winter/all year round quarters with, perhaps, summer yurts on the upland pastures. A great many of the yurts we saw are now also, or possibly only, servicing the tourist industry. One family we chatted to spent their winters in Bishkek and their summers on the Tien Shan uplands, providing visitor facilities at Tash Rabat - one of those three historic buildings we mentioned earlier.
Below: summer uplands near Tash Rabat, 21st century style - yurts, trucks, tourists and horses
What are the key elements of Kyrgyzstan’s historic nomadic lifestyle? Terroir would suggest that the combination of vast areas of upland, combined with robust and sure footed livestock, is key.
According to our guide book, a staggering 90% of Kyrgyzstan is over 1,500m (around 5,000 ft). If you read our previous blog (The Bin), you’ll know that Ben Nevis is ‘only’ 1,345 m (or 4,413 ft). The north and east of the country is dominated by the Tien Shan mountain range, which stretches from Uzbekistan, thrugh Kyrgyzstan and on into western China. The highest peak, on the Kyrgyz side of the China border, clocks 7,439 m (over 24,000 ft) which is not far off 84% of the height of Everest. The geology and age of the rocks varies and so does the landscape (see below).
South western Kyrgyzstan sports sections of the Pamir and Pamir Alay ranges, older and more rounded mountains but still achieiving a Kyrgyz summit (second highest in the Pamir range) of 7,134 m (23,400 ft) at Peak Lenin.
Below: glimpses of the Tien Shan range
How do you create a way of life which makes best use of such a vertical country? Livestock is the obvious answer. Horses, donkeys and camels - the four legged equivalent of the modern four wheel drive - provide transport and draft power. Cattle, yaks and sheep provide food, drink, housing, clothing and an outlet for artistic expression. But communities have to keep moving to ensure the meagre pastures can continuously support the animal based ‘capital’.
Below: livestock on the summer pastures - horses, sheep, camels, yak, a donkey on child care duties and cattle
Need some ready money for a lowland shopping expedition? Cash in a beast or two at the cattle market.
Obviously meat is an important part of the nomadic diet (traditionally mutton and horse were particularly significant) but fermented mare’s milk (kumis) is also a Kyrgyz speciality and is now an important part of that new aspect of the nomadic economy - tourism.
We experienced both meat and kumis at Lake Son Kul - a water body frozen in winter, but a dusty experence in summer thanks to climate-change induced mega temperatures. The lake is described in guide books, and on tourist websites, as ‘isolated’ and ‘only accessible by hiking and walking’. In fact we were driven there, but our non four-wheel drive minibus did not enjoy the off-road experience.
An ‘all in one’ meal of mutton and vegetables was prepared for us (below left) (Terroir found it utterly delicious) and which was served to us in an adjacent yurt (middle picture). The low table was laden with the stew, plus salads, fruit, biscuits, jams and sweets, laid out in very generous quantities. The yurt was beautifully decorated but as there was nothing else in it apart from us and the table, it felt rather like eating in the little used parlour or ‘front room’ of an English, Edwardian, terraced house.
After lunch we were introduced to kumis and shown how the women milked the mares to obtain the basic raw material (below right). Before and after fermentation tasting samples were available; the kumis reminded Terroir of kefir but of a thinner consistency.
Kyrgyz nomadic housing, is of course, based on the yurt, a structure made from wood, reed, leather and thick, home made felt. It can be collapsed, packed away, loaded onto a cart, transported to a new area of meadow, and reconstructed with remarkable efficiency.
Here is Terroir’s guide to erecting a yurt in ten (uneasy?) steps. Please note that the yurt in question is tiny so that the building team could fit in the demonstration before another generous lunch was served in the family house!
Actually it should be eleven steps - it was pointed out that we had missed the shots of vodka taken inside on completion.
And, of course, no modern yurt is complete without its converted railway carriage extension.
A mobile life means that crafts and artistic expression must use easily available raw materials. It must also adapt well to life in an upland pasture and be easily packed away and transported.
Animal skins are great for boots and bottles but you can’t beat home-made woollen felt for stunning interior decoration and inspired needle work.
Our first introduction to Kyrgyz shyrdaks was in hotels and guest houses where these patterned felt rectangles had been re-puposed from domestic decorative wall hangings, carpets and table covers to doing the same job in the hospitality sector. They are stunning in either location.
Thankfully, we were soon taken to visit a fascinating collection of costumes and decorative textiles lovingly kept by a Kyrgyz family who were concerned, not just with interested tourists like ourselves, but with the conservation of this heritage and with raising awareness, both locally and regionally, of a traditional art and craft form which could easily be lost.
Women created these fabrics. The work was slow, laborious but social and one can imagine that process was as important as finished product. Our guide book suggests that two colour embroidery was formerly the norm but, with the availability of modern, 20th century dyes, more dramatic colour schemes have developed. We have yet to verify this and, foolishly, didn’t ask when the opportunity arose. We could certainly spot the difference between items produced for tourists (smaller, easier to carry, quicker to make, often involving machine rather than hand stitching) but that’s fine. We bought.
How many in Kyrgyzstan can afford to risk investment (time, finance, market research) to produce modern pieces using traditional techniques? How many women still have the skills? What are the risks of cultural appropriation? Who would buy? I would - if I could afford it, of course.
We haven’t even touched on two other nomad staples which delight visitors to Kyrgyzstan.
One is the use of eagles for hunting. Extraordinarily dramatic and picturesque - an adult eagle can take out a wolf, as well as kill prey for human consumption - and steeped in tradition. Does it exist now just for tourists? Can it adapt to a modern but non-tourist context? It reminded me of our European traditions of hunting with birds. Now largely a tourist spectacle, it does have a few modern commercial functions, but I can hardly see eagles being employed to rid Kyrgyz airports or football grounds of starlings and pigeons.
The other is a modern tradition built on nomadic skills and sports - the Kyrgyz invention of the Nomad Games. First held in 2016 and now with a permanent stadium in Cholpon-Ata on Lake Issyk Kul, this biennial event is largely based on equestrian skills, wrestling, falconry (yes, the eagles do have a role) but also includes yurt building and board games - nomadic aspects you don’t usually see at that other great horse based tradition, the North American rodeo.
But we can’t finish a blog on the nomadic traditions of Kyrgyzstan without mentioning one final, great Kyrgyz icon. The hat or headress is key, of course.
The man’s jaunty, felt, titfer is modelled for us by the yak herder at the top of this blog, and by our eagle toting friend above. It comes in a variety of patterns. If you don’t fancy making your own, new ones can be bought in the Bishkek bazaar. It is such a symbol of the Kyrgyz male, that there is even an older version in the excellent Karakol museum (image left).
In contrast, women tend to have moved on from the traditional yards of cotton which once swathed their heads and which, unlike the man’s headgear, could also be pressed into service to swaddle babies or staunch wounds, as required.
Below (left) women’s traditional and (right) more modern headgear
We might get to those three heritage buildings next time.
The Bin
We’re in Central Asia. New experiences are flooding in, unfamiliar landscapes surround us, cultural assumptions are being challenged, flora and fauna are simultaneously familiar and exotic.
We have reached a pass at about 3,400m (that’s around 11,155 ft in old/Boris money). For a bit of context, Ben Nevis is 1,345 m (4,413 ft), Mont Blanc is 4,807 m (15,770 ft) and Everest is 8,849 m (a tad over 29,000 ft). We’re in a minibus in T shirts and trainers, by the way, not on foot in full climbing gear. We’ve just passed that herd of yak.
We stop for a toilet break and photos. It has the potential to be a memorable moment. And it is: for Terroir, at least, this turns out to be the most memorable and, sadly, the most shocking view of the whole trip.
No - not the toilet block (men on the left and women on the right - it’s in Kyrgyz, not Russian).
The issue is the awful, ghastly, horrendous abomination of plastic litter, accumulating so unexpectedly in this vast landscape. It hit us hard, straight between the eyes and sent us reeling.
This isn’t Kyrgyzstan’s fault. This is the fault of the whole world.
This blog is not about Central Asia. It’s about the environment, global responsibility, and to some extend, international tourism. Specifically it’s a desperate plea regarding the misuse and abuse of so-called single use plastics.
Single use plastic is any plastic item which is designed to be thrown away. Even if it’s technically recyclable, it’s still far more likely to be thrown away, as demonstrated in the pictures above.
Single use plastic isn’t just bottles - it can be plastic shopping bags (again, see pictures) labels and tags, drinking straws, takeaway containers, packaging and cutlery.
Despite what we are led to believe, single use plastic DOES NOT biodegrade but merely breaks down into micro particles, too small to see. But its still there, polluting land, rivers, sea - and our food.
Plastics which aren’t recycled get burnt or dumped, polluting water, air, land - and our food.
And inevitably, the pollution caused by single-use plastics’ impacts disproportionately on poorer and disadvantaged communities.
But:
We can take action
.
The immediate and short term solution, suggested by our picture above, is to take your litter home and dispose of it responsibily!
This Kyrgyz litter bin (right) is trying hard too, although one wonders how much of the plastic deposited here can actually be recycled.
Better and more long term solutions include:
political pressure - write to your MP, join a pressure group, sign petitions
find alternatives to single use plastics - use zero waste shops, avoid that chippy with polystyrene containers, buy drinks in cans, take a cloth bag when shopping
wear natural fabrics or go to a charity shop for recycled clothes
if you can afford it, boycott items in plastic packaging; change the mindset of manufacturers and suppliers
It’s not simple - it never is - but that is a very bad reason for doing nothing.
Please take action now. Not everyone will have been brought up short by the experience we had in Central Asia. Plastic pollution is usually invisible and insidous, impacting on every corner of the globe. We musn’t ignore it.
Our thanks to Greenpeace, amongst others, for some hard, cold reality to temper the rather emotional response to the Kyryzstan high level bin. https://www.greenpeace.org/africa/en/blogs/14052/everything-you-should-know-about-single-use-plastic/
Wall Flowers
No, not this sort of wallflower (Erisymum) which, unromantically, is part of the cabbage family, the Brassicaceae.
Nor this sort of wall flower either: the flamboyant flower varieties that can be encouraged to grow next to walls, or dangle down walls from hanging baskets or project themselves from walls in window boxes.
We’re talking about the sort of plants which grow in walls, and which plant themselves there without the aid of potting compost and irrigation.
This maidenhair spleenwort (left) is a classic example.
Terroir North writes:
A suprising number of plants are tenacious enough, and versatile enough, to successfully colonise all sorts of nooks and crannies in what appear to be very inhospitable environments, including man-made structures like stone and brick walls.
For obvious reasons, this sort of ‘wall flower’ needs to be able to withstand drought. Such flora can also be typical of horizontal environments such as dry, bare ground, where there is no competition from other plants. White stonecrop, a native succulent, has fleshy, waterstoring leaves, which enable it to grow in the free-draining conditions of crevices as well as rocky soils.
Similarly, plants which thrive in the lime mortar, which holds many walls together, may also be typical of more horizontal limestone outcrops.
Where mosses have established they can provide humus and a more favourable seed bed for many subsequent wall colonisers.
Some wall plants are true natives to the UK such as wall speedwell and wall lettuce. But others may have been introduced some time ago from beyond our shores and have ‘naturalised’ and become accepted as part our native flora. Ivy-leaved toadflax (below left) probably started life in Britain adorning the walled gardens of large country houses, following introduction from the Mediterranean as far back as the 17th century. Pellitory of the wall (below centre) is another incomer, thought to have been introduced to Britain for its (doubtful and unproven) herbal medicinal uses. Old cottage garden plants, such as common red valerian (below right) and purple toadflax, have escaped from gardens and also naturalised in the wild.
In centuries-old castles, such as Caerphilly in South Wales, or Thirlwall Castle near Hadrian’s Wall in Northumberland, a diverse range of plants have successfully established themselves all around the walls. Over time the lime mortar between the stone blocks has crumbled, providing a more suitable foothold for these plants. Seeds, either carried on the wind or excreted or dropped by birds, may land in these spaces and, where a crack or crevice in the mortar has developed, they can germinate and become established. In the damper and more shady parts of the walls the spores of ferns carried on the wind may also establish themselves.
Thirlwall Castle:
At Caerphilly Castle in June 2021, the wall flower display was dazzling. Ivy leaved toadflax and pellitory of the wall were present in abundance, but the other star of the show was the navelwort (also called pennywort), in various stages of its spectacular development.
The Caerphilly supporting act was diverse.
Of course the grasses get in on the act with their wonderfully evocative names. Here is a selection:
The former induustrial buildings of Cornwall provide a lush wall habitat with an eclectic mix of mosses and shrubs, reflecting the local rainfall statistics, the shelter of surrounding landforms and seed from the adjacent scrub regeneration.
No review of wall botany would be complete without a mention of lichens. Terroir is far better at taking photographs of lichens than in identifying them, as illustrated by the uncaptioned images below. If you can assist us, please use the comment box at the bottom of this blog. We would be very appreciative. Sadly a quick trawl of lichen related websites demonstrated a preponderance of sites dedicated to removing lichen from stone work, paths and many other substrates. As we assume the search engines list sites in order of popularity/hits/willingness of product manufacturers to pay, this is deeply worrying.
On the whole, lichens, mosses and herbaceous plants don’t seem to do significant harm to their host structures and can certainly add a great deal to local biodiversity, provide a source of food for pollinators, and enhance the interest and appearance of old walls.
Of course disasters do happen. This wall collapse (right), which probably had nothing to do with its attendant plant community, has wiped out a section of the habitat for wall loving flora. If left alone, however, or if repaired using traditional techniques, soil creation will start again and the surrounding vegetation will provide ample seeds and spores for recolonisation.
Fences and fence posts aren’t a patch on walls for biodiversity of course, but are good for perching birds and can also do quirky!
Ophelia’s Brook
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide,
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up
Hamlet, Act IV, Scene vii
Shakespeare first launched poor Ophelia into the weeping brook at the beginning of the 17th century. The play, ‘Hamlet Prince of Denmark’ is thought to have been written between 1599 and 1601 and Terroir likes to think that the first night might have been in 1601 or 1602 (for reasons which will later become obvious), prior to print versions being published in 1603 and 1604.
For over 400 years, Hamlet’s story has continued to resonate with audiences and artists alike. Ophelia would fit in well today; her issues relating to such things as mental health, domestic abuse and feminism have not gone away.
Thus the troubled Ophelia was muse to many painters, and the Victorians were particularly fascinated by her. British artists Richard Redgrave, Arthur Hughes, Thomas Francis Dicksee and John Williams Waterhouse all had a go, depicting her in various states of frailty and/or innocence. Photographs of their interpretations can be found at https://shakespeareandbeyond.folger.edu/2018/01/30/ophelia-nineteenth-century-english-art/
But it was John Everett Millais, a founder member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, who really put Ophelia on the artistic map and probably inspired the many subsequent renditions of the Ophelia image.
Of the artists listed above, only Richard Redgrave’s portrait (left) predates Millais’. Our heroine sits on a tree trunk with her flower garlands in her lap, and her gaze fixed on an unknown view. Behind her, her own landscape is diminished, fading into a dark wooded tunnel, a hollow way, which holds we know not what untold nightmares.
Image:
© Victoria and Albert Museum, London
Using content from V&A Search the Collections for non-commercial purposes
In July 1851, 250 years after ‘Hamlet’ was first performed, Millais started work on his version of Ophelia. His model for Ophelia herself was Elizabeth Siddal, described as a ‘favourite of the Pre-Raphaelites’. Siddal posed for the work lying in a bath. The water was heated by lamps from below, but the experience must still have been extraordinarily unpleasant. Understandably, she became ill – her father threatened Millais with legal action until he consented to pay her doctor’s bills – but survived, and later married Dante Gabriel Rossetti, another founder member of the Brotherhood.
Millais’ model for the “weeping brook” was the Hogsmill River, a chalk stream which rises in Ewell in Surrey and flows into the Thames at Kingston. The clear waters and floriferous banks must have made it an attractive and appropriate location and perhaps its brief life ‘on this earth’ (it flows for a mere six or seven miles before being swallowed by the mighty Thames) also made it an appropriate watery symbol of Ophelia’s brief existence.
When Millais was painting the Hogsmill River it would probably have been a classic, rural, chalk stream and an integral part of the water meadows through which it flowed. We can imagine it as a thread of clear water running over long fans and tassels of water crowfoot, which Terroir likes to think must have been very redolent of a women’s wet and trailing skirt.
The finished painting provides a vivid illustration of water crowfoot (seen, in flower, in the extract below), accentuating the line of Ophelia’s fabulous and floral garment.
Extract from Nicole Ameda https://www.flickr.com/photos/153228408@N06/33651078923/
In the 1850s the flow of the river was sufficient to drive a number of corn and gunpowder mills, so commercial and industrial establishments were also co-habiting with Ophelia. Indeed, William Holman Hunt, another founder member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, also found inspiration along the Hogsmill, and his painting, ‘The Light of the World’, portrays Christ knocking at a door said to be modelled on the that of a disused hut, once used by workers at one of the gunpowder mills. https://eehe.org.uk/?p=25294
The flowers which Millais painted with great botanical accuracy – including daisy, violets, the white field rose, pansies, poppies, forget me not and purple loosestrife – could all have grown hereabouts, although not necessarily all flowering at the same time nor all growing in the exact same location!
In 2001, 150 years after Millais started work besides the Hogsmill River, The London Walking Forum launched the ‘London Loop’, a 150-mile hiking route around the green spaces of outer London. As a result, many ‘Loopers’ will be familiar with the Hogsmill and its links to Millais, as it/they take a star turn in Section 8, ‘Bourne Hall Park, Ewell to Kingston upon Thames’.
Although part of Terroir had already circumnavigated London on the ‘Loop’, we started again in 2021 to ensure that all of ‘Terroir South’ could get full Looping honours. In June 2022, 170 years after the completion of the Ophelia magnum opus, we went back again, to look in detail at where Millais would have planted his easel.
From a review of the Ordnance Survey maps, it seemed likely that the first major development in the area was the building of a railway line very close to the ‘Ophelia Site’, in 1859. If Millais, and indeed Holman Hunt, had postponed their projects by just a few years, ‘Ophelia’, The Light of the World’ and HH’s ‘Hireling Shepherd’ might have been located in some other valley. Thereafter, however, there seems to have been little significant change until the beginning of the 20th century.
In 1910, a sewage works was built close to the Hogsmill (to the west of Millais’ ‘Ophelia’ site), and this may well have been a good thing for the river. But by the 1933 map survey, significant changes can be seen, as Ewell’s urban area expanded hugely thanks to the mass construction of pre-war, speculative, housing. The estates were kept at least one field’s width from the river bank, but the die was cast for the change from a largely agrarian landscape to a significantly suburban one.
Today, the river runs shallow and often turbid, through a recreational landscape which is well used – and no doubt highly valued - by the many who live close by. The landscape is a mix of open grassy spaces (based on former meadow areas) and encroaching scrub and secondary woodland which provides a good mosaic of actual and potential wild life habitat. A good network of paths and river bridges provides easy access to and from local housing (as well as for London Loopers). It hasn’t the open, rural , traditional, meadow feel which Millais probably experienced, but it fulfils its modern function more than adequately.
These days, a summer Looper’s landscape along the Hogsmill looks something like this:
And the river itself, often running through a tunnel of woodland, looks something like this (there is a glimpse of that chalk stream clarity in the image below right):
While the massive structure of a fairly modern railway bridge contributes images like this:
Finally we reach the spot which Millais chose to illustrate Ophelia’s ultimate tragedy. Here is a reminder of how Millais saw the river bank:
Extract from Nicole Ameda https://www.flickr.com/photos/153228408@N06/33651078923/
In 2022, the water is clear but very shallow - not enough to power a flour mill, let alone support a flower bedecked Ophelia. Where once were massive veteran pollarded willows and field roses, there is now sycamore, ash, field maple and remnants of elm, all significantly younger than Millais (probably post WWII). Where once was purple loosetrife and teasels there is now Alexanders, stinging nettle, Himalayan balsam and bramble, all symptomatic of changes in landuse from agriculture to urban fringe (although, to be honest, we did spot teasels elsewhere - below right - where light levels were higher).
Behind Millais, there would probably been well-watered, species rich, hay meadows. There is grassland there still, but evidence indicates a series of changes. Rye grass along the edges may indicate a mutation to a more productive monoculture, perhaps for grazing. But it appears that meadows are being reintroduced again, and the whole area managed to create a haven for wildlife, to improve water quality and boost biodiversity, as well as providing a green oasis for residents and visitor alike. Its good to see that much of the area along the Hogsmill is now designated as Local Nature Reserves.
Above: glorious June meadows
Currently, the river banks remain wooded and this rustic ‘memorial’ to Millais and Ophelia (left) is slowly being swallowed by hawthorn and blackthorn, with no direct view of the river itself. But at least the bramble flowers, peaking into the top right corner of the photograph, provide a floral memory of Millais’ field rose tribute to Ophelia, on the banks of the ‘weeping brook’
Serendipity
Albania 3
All countries reveal quirky and unexpected glimpses of themselves to those who travel through or spend some time there. These glimpses can often be surprising, puzzling or amusing, but always revealing and sometimes challenging.
What follows is a pictorial tour through Albania through the medium of the quirky and the unexpected. And don’t worry - this is the last Albania blog!
Transport is certainly a mixed bag. Of course there are modern cars, motor bikes, taxis and buses. But push bikes (above and below) are still part of the psyche.
Agricultural transport can be pretty varied too.
Railways are struggling - but colourful.
In a country of rivers and lakes, ferries are important but idiosyncratic.
Below left: a rope ferry, connecting communities across an inlet; the fare is equivalent to a few pennies
Centre: the Lake Komani stopping service - a bus body on a boat’s hull
Right: the view from the Komani Lake vehicle ferry; part tourist boat, part freight lifeline; both uses are illustrated - just - in the bottom right hand corner of the photograph
Of course, where there is water, there are also bridges. These are a long standing feature of the Albanian landscape but design, function, size and materials vary dramatically. The photograph (left) is the best image we could get of the Roman bridge and aqueduct which crossed the Vivari Channel and linked Roman Buthrotum (now Albanian Butrint) with the Straits of Corfu.
The subsquent Ottoman bridges are one of the great symbols of Albania, adorning the landscape, and all Albanian guide books, with their simplicity, curvature - and unexplained items of metal work.
More recent bridges are of a less curvaceous form of engineering, with a metal superstructure and stone buttresses.
Below left and centre: this one features hardware from Middlesborough (M ˑ BRO), and
Below right: some dodgy timber planking on a bridge to a former mill.
Both are slightly scary, in their own way, crossing narrow gorges of foaming mountain waters - very much a feature of Albania.
Many railway bridges are similarly meccano like (nearer bridge, below left) but what appear at first glance as modern road bridges, do reveal more historic supporting structures (below left and right). We don’t think the Ottomans went in for fancy metal balustrades.
This is the Balkans and the concept of nationalism is never far from the surface. The Luftetari Kombetar or national fighter is remembered and memorialised in many statues around Albania. These representations are sometimes war like in stance but many stand in a more watchful pose, garlanded with ammunition, shod in traditional Albanian footwear and appearing surprisingly well built. Malnutrition or even a lithe, lean look does not seem to be part of the sculptors’ lexicon.
Sadly, the most obvious, physical, memorial to the Cold War years seems to be a collection of concrete ‘mushrooms’, actually the outward manifestation of a system of underground bunkers sufficient, apparently, to give shelter to every Albanian man, woman and child, should the nuclear threat become a reality.
The bunker below this ‘mushroom’ (left) has been converted into a museum charting the history of the Albanian police force. It starts innocently enough with the story of the 1920s, Dutch trained, Gendarmerie but all too soon progresses to the far darker and scarier repressive years from 1944 to 1991.
Religion was banned, and faith leaders persecuted, during the Communist dictatorship. “In 1976, the Party of Labour even declared Albania to be the first atheist country in the world, putting a ban on religious belief in the constitution and imposing punishments for participating in religious ceremonies and possessing religious books” (https://balkaninsight.com/2019/08/28/how-albania-became-the-worlds-first-atheist-country). Mr G, our guide, described it as a complete vacuum in scoiety, with religious buildings demolished or repurposed, and two generations brought up with no faith or spiritual related input. In the 21st century, we found a very relaxed approach to religion throughout Albania. The population is a mix of Muslim (mainly but not exclusively Sunni) with a significant minority of Christians (Catholic and Orthodix). Nearly 10% identify as either atheists or of no religion.
As tourists we didn’t see many shops. Even tourist shops were hard to find, which was actually quite a relief. But spot the upmarket bric-a-brac shop, below!
Albanian craft products are also hard to find. Albanian carpets, fabrics and embroidery are a feast for the eyes, but shopping is challenging if you don’t want red or white! Silver filgree work is also making a modest comeback.
Of course, any journey will ‘throw up’ some linguistic jokes.
But here are our favourite quirky insights into Albania.
In third place, an early encounter with a restaurant toilet door. Such an attractive and homely welcome.
In second place: a traditional Albanian broom - and yes, it’s made out of a broom plant, in flower too.
First place:
this is what Albania is all about - good coffee, good beer, and a very warm welcome
Rectangular Agriculture
Albania 2
After Terroir’s take on Albanian architecture, we promised you something more rural. Field patterns, seen from the air, initiated the angular theme. Here you can see why:
Agriculture, we were told, is still very important to the Albanian economy. We decided to check this out and see how Albania compared with its neighbours and some of the world’s big players. Using https://www.statista.com (for no better reason that it’s easy to use and seemed to produce roughly comparable figures to other websites we looked at) we discovered that around 20% of Albania’s gross domestic product (GDP) does indeed come from agriculture – rectangular or otherwise. As an aside, a further 10% comes from remittances sent from abroad by the Albanian diaspora.
Looking simply at agriculture, here are some interesting comparisons which do, indeed, confirm the importance of this sector to the Albanian economy.
We started investigating what Albania produces as part of our attempts to identify the many fruit trees which were in flower – in orchards, in back gardens, beside roads and tracks, and in a whole variety of plots which didn’t fall into any of those definitions. The angularity theory was already becoming eroded.
We spotted apple, pear, plum, cherry and lemons but were temporarily discomforted by these enthusiastically large and curvaceous blossoms. Quince, of course: soon to become buxom fruit, alongside their more familiar companions.
One could be forgiven for dividing Albania’s countryside into three main geographies: absolutely flat; very hilly; vertiginous. Google Translate insists that the Albanian for undulating is ‘valëzuar’, but I bet no one ever uses it.
It was the ‘absolutely flat’ that had started my obsession with the rectangular nature of lowland Albania. Valley bottoms and some more extensive plains are characterised by small, oblong plots separated from each other by narrow ditches. On the assumption that the ditches fulfill either irrigation or drainage functions (some were indeed carrying water) then there must be a gradient but this is invisible to the eye of the passing tourist. Fences and hedgerows hardly feature at all.
We did occasionally see larger areas of pure wheat, but most of these small rectangles grow a variety of different crops: wheat of course, but barley, oats, potatoes, grass, vines and olives were also obvious. Many plots were tilled but still bare, presumably awaiting the planting of a rich variety of vegetable crops, a selection of which we were eating every evening. Herbs are also highly valued in Albania – for medicinal use as well as for cooking and cosmetics - and fields of sage or lavender were also spotted.
For days we didn’t see any form of mechanisation, just families with bent backs either sowing vegetables or cutting grass with scythes. Eventually we began to spot small tractors but in hilly areas, ponies, mules and the occasional donkey were also visible, kitted out in their pack saddles, waiting to be allocated an errand or a load. Cattle were also taken out to graze, either tethered or accompanied by a herdsman/woman/child.
The ‘very hilly’ landscapes seriously weaken the ‘rectangular agriculture’ theory in all aspects except one: hills appear to rise from the valley bottoms with an almost explosive suddenness. Albania does rivers big time. They carry silt and gravels which they deposit with remarkably evenness across the valley floor. The hills, however, are made out of tougher stuff which is anything but horizontal. The break of slope, where hill meets vale is nothing if not hard, sudden and dramatically angular.
These uplands are rich in deciduous woodland with an ample ground flora which kept the group’s botanists very happy – and, at times, puzzled. As Albania is well endowed with limestone uplands, it reminded us a little of the chalk and limestone habitats of home – but on steroids. The abundance of wild phlomis (below left) was also a clear statement of the proximity to the Mediterranean.
These hills are also the domain of sheep and goats, of bells and of shepherds. Who needs fences when the shepherd and perhaps a dog are constantly on duty and who will return the flock to the shelter of the farm before dark?
Hills can also be productive if they are terraced. But terracing requires considerable labour, to convert a sloping hillside into a stepped one, and a willingness to wait while the crop of olives or fruit trees, or whatever can survive this tough environment, matures sufficiently to bear a crop worth harvesting. One of our Albanian references postulated the use of slave labour (apologies for being unable to find the quote at the time of writing) and in a way this may be true, as a story, told by our guide - Mr G - demonstrates:
When Mr G was at university, the students spent their summers at camps, but not in the sense with which we are familiar. This student labour force was, well, ‘used’ to build terraces and plant trees in areas which were otherwise underproductive. Despite having little choice in the matter, the students did have a wonderful time, working during the day and larking about (Terroir’s word not Mr G’s) in the evenings. Mr G was very proud of the trees which he had planted and revisited them from time to time. But, by the time these trees were mature enough to bear fruit, the regime had changed and land was being redistributed to private owners. Many, many of the terraces we saw were no longer in productive use.
And the future? New uses for rural land will inevitably include tourism. Already the coast and some lake sides are very popular and already have, or are in progress of constructing, the necessary infrastructure.
But holidays in the ‘vertiginous’ landscapes are developing more slowly. Albania’s mountains, and their role in Albanian history and culture, are quite extraordinary. Possibly the best description which we have read to date is Rose Wilder Lane’s ‘Peaks of Shala’ - a record of a journey made in 1921, and available for free download via The Project Gutenberg. Others may have met Albania’s mountains via the activities of Britain’s Special Operations Executive during WWII or, more peacefully and more recently, via Robin Hanbury-Tenison’s book, ‘Land of Eagles’. Today, visiting hikers are increasingly exploring the mountains during the brief summer window when such activities are relatively safe, and new hotels are being constructed at the ends of the few roads which penetrate the world of these craggy horizontals. Good for Albania but less so for the wilderness which they represent.
Albanian Odyssey
Terroir has recently returned from a group trip to Albania, with a side helping of Montenegro, Serbia and an unexpected day in Kosovo. We can’t quite remember why we chose this particular combination – the excursion was booked well over two years ago – but it was probably something to do with knowing nothing about Albania and because Montenegro and Serbia host one of the world’s most spectacular train journeys. This blog will be about Albania. We’ll get to the trains another time.
Right: Skanderbeg - Albania’s national hero - in Tirana’s Freedom Square
First of all, we must confess that we flew from London to Tirana. The view of Albania from the plane was, thus, a guilty pleasure and appeared to reveal a landscape made up entirely of rectangles and what we believe are technically known as rectangular prisms, ie shoe box shapes. Tirana appeared to be built completely of brown, grey and beige shoe boxes set on end, and surrounded by rectangular green and brown fields.
This perception of rectangularity proved to be not entirely false. To western European eyes, the flat roofed, reinforced concrete and rendered brick structures of Albania’s communist period hit us hard and for a few days we wandered around searching, rather pathetically, for an older, more vernacular form of domestic architecture.
Below: shoebox apartment blocks in Tirana
As Albanian history is intensely complicated, we coped by simplistically dividing the country’s past into three phases: before Communism, the nearly 50 years of Communist dictatorship, and after Communism (from around 1992 onwards).
Pre-communism was dominated by the Ottomans, followed more briefly by the 20th century Balkan Wars, independence, nationalism, King Zog (pause for sniggering from British school children) and a number of feisty British men and women who travelled, dabbled, supported or fought for Albania (the latter with the partisans in the WW II).
Communism in Albania wasn’t like that experienced by say Poland or Czechoslovakia, within the Soviet Union, or the former Yugoslavia under Tito. Albania’s Communist dictator, Enver Hoxha, took an impoverished, post war Albania down a different route, sided with Russia when Yugoslavia broke away in 1948 and withdrew from the Warsaw Pact in 1968. Those of us who had been to other post-communist states – the bright lights of Dubrovnik, the rebuilt Warsaw, historic Prague, the playground which is Slovenia or even the slightly tense atmosphere of Mostar - had to re-set our frames of reference. Albania still appears to be playing catch up.
So thank goodness for Mr G. One of the many advantages of a group trip is the ‘local guide’. Born into Communism, a student at the time of regime change (how amazing/frightening must that have been?) and an adult in the post Hoxha era, Mr G’s guidance was unbelievably valuable. No question was too challenging for him; all were answered with thoughtfulness, good humour and a hefty dose of realism.
So, lets get back to that rectangular theme.
Central Tirana offered welcome, if somewhat unexpected, rectangular variety, starting with its Italian influenced architecture of the 1920s and 30s.
Below: left - Tiranan’s Italian Cultural Institute and right - a newly decorated Italinate offering in a very unexpected colour scheme; anyone for Battenburg cake?
Nearly a century later, Skanderberg Square, the central hub of the capital, has once again been redesigned. And once again, it is strong on straight lines and right angles (including the litter bins and benches). It does, however, provide a massive, contemporary, traffic free space, with its shiny modernity softened by planting
and enlivened by all shapes and sizes of humanity, including a glimpse of the suited and booted mayor and his entourage, energetically pedalling through on their bicycles to the nearby city hall.
On the residential front, angles are beginning to soften and colour is becoming more vibrant. But, despite investing in modern art (yes, we assume the bus is intentional, below right), sustainable urban drainage is still a thing of the future. One can only hope that the ‘Go Green’ logo is a promise of things to come.
And finally, a wonderful capital city moment: an architectural ensemble of 18th century mosque, 20th century Italian design and 21st century modernity.
Further afield we began to get a feel for that massive, pre-communist, chunk of history. According to our guide book, early 18th century Voskopoja, in south east Albania, was “the largest city in the Balkans, bigger even than Athens or Sofia” (Albania, the Bradt Travel Guide, Gillian Glover, 2018). Today it is a tiny, remote village, but enough remains to give us a flavour of the Albanian end of the Ottoman empire. Of the 24 orginal churches, only seven remain and even fewer are in a condition to be open to the public, but it’s still a real eyeful.
Local stone and timber have created magnificent structures. Even the restored agricultural building (right) with its string courses and less traditional corrugated iron roof and wire-scape, is a delight. Other cottages and farm buildings in the village were romantically tumble-down. In Britain they would be snapped up and restored; the growing tourist industry may have the same impact here.
The ‘beautiful and austere’ town of Gjirokastra (Bradt Guide again) ‘spread downhill from its castle in the 13th century’. Unlike Voskopoja, it is still very much a town to be reckoned with, built in grey stone and slate, its modern suburbs oozing out over flat valley bottom in startling white, buttoned down by the occasional red tile roof. Here we saw our first souvenir shops, a wider choice of cafes, and steep, block paved roads obstructed by cars trying to access our traditional, Ottoman style, hotel.
North east of Gjirokastra lies Përmet, perhaps 30 km away as the eagle flies but over double that by the road, which must travel the long way round from the valley of the Drin to the valley of the Vjosa. The River Vjosa, which gives this small town its raison d'être and its identity, is described by the Bradt Guide as ‘one of the lovelist rivers in Albania’, a description which Terroir is happy to endorse. If the balconies of the shoe box flats were sporting gernaiums rather than carpets and washing, one could be forgiven for thinking we had strayed into Austria.
Our final destination for this particular blog is Korça, perched high up between the Greek border to the south and Lakes Ohrid and Prespa to the north. It is the home of good beer and the first Albanian language schools. Its architecture is equally diverse, ranging from the modern (such as the National Museum of Medieval Art, left) to a far more traditional vibe.
Next time, we’ll take a look at rectangular agriculture!
Sand Pit
What do you do with a hole in the ground?
Surface mineral extraction can be a landscape blight as well as an industrial resource. Clay, sand, aggregate, granite, limestone, slate – all can make huge impacts on their environments as well as, more positively, on their local economies. All create holes with very differing characteristics and potential. Clay holes are often filled with waste, and have gone on to expand upwards, creating hills where none existed before. Slate and granite are good at new vertical landscapes with scars and screes. Once the pumps are turned off, sand and gravel pits usually fill with water, creating widespreading horizontal changes to the local landscape character.
Recently Terroir visited a sand pit, once impenetrable behind its industrial security fencing, ‘keep out’ signs and all the paraphernalia of extraction health and safety requirements. Eventually, however, new mineral extraction planning permissions were no longer forthcoming and the pit was allowed to flood.
Nothing unusual there, you may say. ‘Soft’ restoration schemes are very common, with management for nature conservation and visual amenity, and frequently including some sort of revenue earning, water-based recreation facilities, such as sailing, kayaking, fishing, but with plenty of public access. Last week’s blog featured The Moors, a mixed development with new housing adjacent to flooded lagoons and seasonal water bodies. Here, existing public access has been extended and linked into the National Cycle Network which takes you onwards to two older flooded sand pits, one managed for water based recreation at one end (with fishing and nature conservation at the other), and the second purely as a nature reserve.
Buckland Park Lake, however, is trying a different model. With no pre-existing public rights of way, the whole, post-industrial, lake-and-landscape combination, is concealed behind a pay-wall. Well more of a pay-woodland, actually, with a wooden shed located half way down the old mineral access road, to sell you entrance tickets; £7 a pop for adults during the High Season or £99 for the year. Various concessions are available.
Once inside this ‘new and unique recreation space’ (https://bucklandparklake.co.uk/) access to the whole park and the paddling pool is free but ‘open water swimming, water sports and bushcraft should be booked directly with The Surrey Hills Adventure Company’. There’s also a restaurant and a variety of tracks and trails suitable for strolling or running. No dogs are allowed.
It sounds, and one day may feel, like an inland resort. But this is not a word used by the website:
‘Our 100-acre site blends tranquillity with breath-taking views over one of Surrey’s largest lakes. We have around 50 acres of mature mixed woodland, abundant bird life, walking trails and a small sandy beach.’
Terroir went to take a look.
First of all, it is still very new. As the landscape matures and the facilities bed, one hopes that many of the raw edges will be softened.
Above: The water sports area
Below: theview from the restaurant (the pods get very hot during the day) and the less formal recreational areas
Surprisingly, drainage appears to be an issue. A cut off ditch edges the car park and supports a lush, linear wetland habitat which we hadn’t expected, but were delighted to see. Yet the car park itself presented a bizarre contradiction: its outer edge blending with the ditch habitats - dominated by juncus rush and other indicators of wetland and poor drainage - while a few feet away the sprinklers were working hard (the car park had taken a hammering the day before) and the local ducks were in irrigation heaven. One feels, perhaps, that a rethink of car park surfacing is urgently required.
Above: the stream/ditch/drain
Below: left - car park ‘outfield’, full of rushes; right - the actual parking areas, full of ducks
Elsewhere the sand cliffs are a delightful mix of dry and acid loving species including gorse, broom and birch, with sheets of nettles where the richer overburden or spoil was probably stored or subsequently buildozed.
The woodland walk sounds inviting. The current offer is a mixed bag of developing ‘secondary’ woodland on areas no longer used for sand extraction, and older stands of exotic conifers. Terroir has no problem with that - indeed it’s fascinating evidence of the sand pit’s history - but the information signs fail to take advantage of the story. Why not explain why there is such a mix of local species (including birch, sweet chestnut, sallow, sycamore, English oak, evergreen oak and field maple), in some areas and single species stands of Scots Pine or the non-native western red cedar, in others?
A number of Scot’s pines ‘interspersed in the woodland’. It sounds so romantic but what the viewer is actually looking at is a 1950s commercial, single species, conifer plantation surrounded by a delapidated fence. Why not tell the story of why these planations were planted and what is (or more likely isn’t) happening to them now. And possibly remove that fence.
The story of the local sand extraction is told on - just one - interpretation board (below left). There is scope for a lot more and one hopes that this will follow. The retention of the processing plant (below right) is also a plus, adding welcome historical links.
The bird life mentioned on the web site is certainly developing and the multistorey sand marten nesting wall seems to be well used. Sensitive management should increase the lake’s attraction for bird watchers, but currently the hide looks rather lonely.
We have no knowledge of whether the bookable, water based activities, and the fishing, are providing the income required to make this into a going concern, but even on a chilly day in early May, there was at least some activity on the lake.
But surely the big question is, will the punters pay the site entry charge? Will they cross the pay wall? With so many free countryside, wetland and greenspace facilities nearby, not to mention the Surrey Hills Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, the North Downs Way and the Greensand Way, is their any incentive for the casual user to pay up? Curiosity there certainly is. This year, the Annual Buckland May Fayre was held in the Buckland Park Lake. Numbers attending were hugely underestimated, traffic queued to get in, food supplies ran out, the bottle tombla wiped clean and stories of chaos were legion. The entry fee was reduced to £2 and it was reported that many turned up out of sheer curiousity to see what Buckland Lake was all about. £7 a time is definitely offputting, but a village fete at £2 is worth a go.
But maybe that is exactly the point. Maybe the business plan for Buckland Park Lake is based on creating an exclusive environment for those willing to pay for it.
Change of Management
With an ever growing image library, this blog was meant to be a comparison of spring 2020, 2021 and 2022, based on Terroir’s photographs of our favourite urban landscape, The Moors, near Redhill in Surrey. Those new to Terroir can catch up on the back story in Blogs 1, 11, 16, 31, and 54.
We discovered - the hard way - that unless you can indulge in fixed point photography and keep excellent records of camera settings, view points etc, taking and comparing before and after images can be at best frustrating and at worst, useless. Take a look at the disastrous attempt below!
Above: ‘before’ on the left (2020), and ‘after’ on the right (2022). Well, maybe that islet has moved, but as the photographer’s location and camera settings are different, it is impossible to verify!
The changes which were most obvious, however, were not those necessarily linked to seasonal variation. It was the changes which had occurred to this post industrial landscape over the (nearly) three year time span of the pandemic.
Here is what we found.
A hugely expanded clump of dogs mercury: usually regarded as an indicator species for ancient woodland; so good to see it not just hanging on, but now thriving.
During the pandemic, there has been little active maintenance and management at the Moors. This isn’t necessarily bad - just different. At the moment the wild flowers which thrive on the edge of hedgerows are blooming, providing a range of colour and form. The summer grassland flowers, however, may not be so copious this year as the scrub is slowly extending over the grassy verges, alongside the paths and cycle way. But already a healthy growth of young willowherb, and some spikes of common agrimony, pressage a blaze of pink and mauve, with yellow highlights, later on in the year.
From left to right - top row: common sorrel, common forget-me-not, and a young teasel
Middle row: red campion, bugle and white dead nettle
Bottom row: garlic mustard (the tangy leaves are delicious at this time of year), meadow buttercup and cuckoo flower/ladies smock, a lover of ditch sides and damp rough grassland.
Thankfully, the encroaching scrub is not without interest either: flowers, fresh foliage and tinges of red on some newly opened leaves are all welcome accessories to a late spring walk.
From left to right - top row: holly in flower, a sycamore sapling and an alder - the latter another wetland lover.
Bottom row: a wild rose, buddleia (a naturalising garden escape) and the soft, glossy leaves of young brambles
The blackthorn is over but other shrubs and trees are adding to the spring time vibe. And, as is usual these days, the May (hawthorn) is fully out in April.
From left to right - top row: hawthorn hedge in flower, elderflower and gean or wild cherry: with its straight branches, awkwardly angled from the trunk, the gean flowers always make me think of handkerchiefs on a washing line or stars on a Christmas tree.
Bottom row: willows, and a rogue horse chestnut complete with candle
Sadly, the ash dieback is very obvious (below).
Despite the lack of rain, water levels are still high, the main footpath/cycle way is still partly flooded and the seasonal wetlands are inundated. This excess of water is possibly why the swan pair have moved their nest; still close to the path but further to the west of last year’s location. A beady-eyed heron stands very close. We’ve not heard of herons taking eggs but they certainly eat ducklings and cygnets.
The brook itself has also changed. Some of the mature trees have been felled or partly felled, presumably for safety reasons, and more light is reaching sections of the water course. The partly felled ‘totem’ trees look bizarre but the organisms which will inhabit the slowly rotting wood will be a welcome addition to the area’s biodiversity.
The ‘offline’ balancing pond has turned a rusty brown colour - an algal bloom? - and there are traces of it along the edge of the shadier, slower flowing, sections of the stream (image below left). Some green waterweed still remains, however (below right), but the areas of yellow flag (centre) have extended enormously and will be spectacular later in the month.
We have given up on fixed point photography, but we will report back later in the year on how the Moors post-pandemic (is that tempting fate?) summer of 2022, compares with its lock down predecessors.
Changes to Terroir
Terroir blog had a long gestation period but eventually went live in October 2020. It was the perfect lockdown project and a weekly post seemed ideal. Thankfully, our life styles have changed and now that we are ‘learning to live with Covid’ we will be travelling more often and more extensively than we were able to, in the previous two summers. For the next six months at least, therefore, the Terroir blog will be appearing on a fortnightly basis. Blog 81 will appear as normal on Thursday 12th May but blog 82 will not be posted until Thursday 26th May. Further postings will follow at two week intervals.
Rewilding
What is rewilding and why do we do it? How to cover this in one short blog? You would need to write a book to even begin to answer that one. Luckily that book has already been written, by many competent authors, including George Monbiot (Feral), Jepson and Blythe (Rewilding – The Radical New Science of Ecological Recovery) and Isabella Tree (Wilding).
But what is rewilding and why does it create so much controversy?
Definitions vary in subtle ways; here are a couple of extracts from rewilding websites:
“Rewilding is a progressive approach to conservation. It’s about letting nature take care of itself, enabling natural processes to shape land and sea, repair damaged ecosystems and restore degraded landscapes. Through rewilding, wildlife’s natural rhythms create wilder, more biodiverse habitats.” https://rewildingeurope.com/what-is-rewilding-2/
Nature has the power to heal itself and to heal us, if we let it. That’s what rewilding is all about; restoring ecosystems to the point where nature can take care of itself, and restoring our relationship with the natural world. Reconnecting with what matters.” https://www.rewildingbritain.org.uk/explore-rewilding/what-is-rewilding
As you can see, there is a lot about stepping back and letting nature take care of itself. Terroir prefers:
“Rewilding, or re-wilding, activities are conservation efforts aimed at restoring and protecting natural processes and wilderness areas. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rewilding_(conservation_biology)
Practical, realistic and un-romantic.
From Terroir’s experience, most non-ecologists and non-farmers seem to favour rewilding for the emotional pull of recreating what we think was there before, for reintroducing species which we ‘remember’ in folk lore or in our childhoods, but which have gone extinct. But there are always lines to be drawn, usually around wolves and beavers. Many would mourn the loss of the ‘quintessential’ English patchwork landscape (although probably still dependent on fertilisers and pesticides) or heathland, while others want to plant trees over everything.
These are headlines, of course, and we need to dig deeper. Here are some key issues:
Why Rewild?
Emotion: we mourn the loss of hedgerows, wild flowers, song birds. We hope re-wilding will bring back our lost youth, our lost countryside, lost culture and salve our guilty consciences. Cynical? Yes. True? Probably.
Climate change: sadly, you have to dig a lot deeper to find the real elephant in the room (if you'll pardon the expression). It has to be about climate change, the carbon crisis and saving the planet. Biodiverse ecosystems are more stable and resilient, can sequester carbon and are more productive, but not necessarily in a way which will support our current lifestyle.
And there is the rub: rewilding changes how things look and how things work.
Put things back to how they were before we messed up. But:
· when we began to mess up there were rather fewer of ‘us’
· and do we really know how things were?
· so how do we get there from ‘now’, which is a radically different starting place compared with ‘before we messed up’.
This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do it, though. But believe you me, it is not just about ‘letting nature take care of itself’.
The piece of rewilding which is best known to Terroir is the Knepp Estate in West Sussex – and we thoroughly recommend Isabella Tree’s book, ‘Wilding’, now also available in paperback. Previously an arable farm on heavy clay which struggled to make ends meet, Knepp is now a gloriously diverse landscape, contributing hugely to a healthy planet – and probably still struggling to make ends meet!!
Knepp’s landscape is not unmanaged. They say it is ‘process led’, in other words natural ecological processes lead the way, but that belies the degree of management required to reach where they think they might be going, on the basis of where they think they have come from.
Following the research of the Dutch ecologist Frans Vera, Knepp is aiming at wood pasture, which many now think was our climax vegetation, rather than the high forest which Terroir’s generation learned about. Wood pasture requires grazers and browsers. Some of those which might once have grazed in West Sussex are now extinct of course, but the herd of old English longhorn cattle, red, roe and fallow deer, and Exmoor ponies are doing a grand job.
Wild boar, which would rootle through the vegetation, opening up soil to the benefit of a wider range of plant species, are expert escapists and a feral nuisance in southern England, so a small number of Tamworth pigs have been employed to do the same job.
But of course, in a natural landscape, there would also be predators, controlling the number of herbivores who are controlling the vegetation. Back to those wolves. But southern Britain isn’t yet ready for wolves. So the ‘carnivore’ is represented by a culling regime.
Letting nature take care of itself? The processes are very close to ‘natural’, but humans are still in control. Every year, management decisions are taken, largely on how many browsers the project can sustain while still achieving wood pasture. Natural famine amongst herbivores has been eliminated.
A natural landscape? Again, very close, particularly as rare, or extinct, locally native species (such as nightingales, turtle doves and purple emperor butterflies) have flocked back into the estate.
Image right: purple emperor butterfly © R Stephens
Not all species can make it back without help, however. White storks, long extinct in Britain, were introduced to Knepp, from Poland, in 2016. They finally felt settled enough to successfully breed in 2020 and are now an established part of the estate.
Is it biodiverse? Very much so.
Do we like it? It’s nothing like what was there before. It’s nothing like that idyllic Sussex agricultural landscape which we think we remember. To many 21st century eyes, it may appear scruffy, untidy and unkempt.
But the number of visitors, thronging the public rights of way on a sunny afternoon, speaks of enthusiastic interest and, yes, approval. The Knepp ‘safaris’ are pretty much booked out for the whole of the summer. The tree platforms are an amazing way to visit the inside of the canopy of a mature oak.
And of course animals do add to the attraction; 21st century eyes do love an antlered fallow deer or a cute Tamworth piglet.
Walls
Walls often get a bad press: they can divide, separate, segregate, exclude, banish, prohibit, hide, and lock away, in all the very worst ways.
But walls can also shelter and protect. They can be beautifully crafted, decorative, characterful, symbolic. They can tell stories about their locality, about history and prehistory. They can be political, advertorial, or works of art in their own right
Here is a selection of walls to celebrate spring and the opportunities to be on the outside of walls after a winter of looking at their insides. We’re starting with some stunningly beautiful ones.
That trip to Seville gave some lovely quirky details:
Closer to home: under a railway bridge on the Hogsmill River near Kingston (left) and Eastbourne sea front (right).
Multi-media in Georgia (below left) and showing off in London’s Whitehall (below right).
Local materials: Surrey stone (pity they got the mortar too strong) and Surrey clay work - brick and tile hanging.
The Glencoe Creel House: constructed in local turf and heather (images © T Thompson).
Walls with messages:
Heritage Walls: much admired today but these structures hint at dark histories.
These mud walls once said, ‘Keep Out’. But now they are ‘heritage’, tourists are more than welcome.
Khiva, Uzbekistan
And here is a Romanian warning, of the consequences of an ill-spent life. It’s all in the detail.
Happy springtime.
White Stuff
Cornish holidays: beauty, wildness, mystery. Crashing seas, coves, beaches, wind-swept uplands, lighthouses, fishing villages, smugglers, sea shanties, tales of adventure, romantic ruins and mineral extraction. Yep, it’s all part of that Cornish allure.
“Metal mining, especially for tin, is Cornwall’s greatest and most romantic industry…” (Richard Stanier, Cornwall’s Industrial Heritage, 2005). Where’s the romance in shanty towns, arsenic poisoning, deep mining and limited life expectancy (Blog 71)?
Well, precious little of course, but when industry becomes heritage, perception changes. Those “hundreds of roofless engine houses across the landscape” (Peter Stanier again) are an alluring hint of bygone times. But, as we noted in the ‘Tinners’ blog, tin mining not only left a landscape of iconic industrial archaeology, it also left very little obvious waste.
Not so Cornwall’s other “massively important” (more Stanier) mineral industry – China Clay. China clay extraction and processing changed the rural landscape from green to an often startling white, either as holes in the ground, or as conical heaps (sky tips) of waste materials. It had an enormous visual impact over a huge area. Characteristic of many areas of Cornwall, and yes iconic, but I suspect few find it romantic.
The internal environment created by China Clay processing could be very different, however, and the lives of the workers, though tough and physically exacting was probably very different to the life of a tin miner.
In Terroir’s school days, China Clay was always mentioned in secondary school geography lessons, although I have no memory of being told of its use in ceramics, merely as an additive to fabrics and toothpaste. I don’t think historical geography was well regarded then. I do remember references to ‘rotting granite’ which we thought was highly amusing. So a very quick summary of the history of china clay may be appropriate.
China clay or kaolin results from decomposition of feldspar in granite. The Chinese knew its ceramic properties centuries before Europeans got a handle on it. In Cornwall it had been used as a building material until a Plymouth Quaker apothecary, one William Cookworthy, produced ‘hard-paste’ porcelain and patented the mix in 1768. Naturally, he opened a pottery. Cookworthy’s partner later tried to extend the patent but the guys from Staffordshire, led by Josiah Wedgwood, broke the monopoly. Other uses were also found for kaolin and extraction expanded rapidly.
China clay was valuable enough to support a system based on extraction of vast quantities of raw material, followed by lengthy processing, to produce only a small amount of the final clay product. Around 90% of the material quarried is discarded as waste. Although the landscape impact was enormous, the processing details can be surprisingly beautiful. Our thanks to the Wheal Martyn Clay Works Museum (right) for showing us the processes involved and the technology created to undertake the journey from ‘rotting granite’ to porcelain, or indeed, paper and toothpaste.
The quantities required, and the softness of the raw material, meant that a flow of water was the simplest way of removing the kaolinised granite. Gravity fed water flows were soon replaced by hand held hoses, which later developed into the high pressure, serpent like, ‘Monitors’.
The clay slurry had then to be pumped from the pit to surface level. Initially water wheels provided the energy until replaced by steam powered pumps.
At Wheal Martyn, waste material – quartz, sand and rock - which couldn’t go up the slurry pump shaft, was sent up by skips on an inclined tram road. Here was the first load of spoil needing to be dumped.
Right: self tipping skip waggon, image courtesy of China Clay History Society
The slurry of clay, sand and mica, went to the sand ‘drags’, a system of gently sloping channels, which allowed the sand to settle out - and this spoil was discharged to the river.
Next the mica drags performed a similar job for the smaller mica particles, which were also discharged to the river, often mixed with a smidgeon of clay slurry; the rivers ran white as a result.
At Wheal Martyn, the pure clay slurry then entered the Blueing House (still with us?), was sieved through a wire mesh to remove leaves or other materials which may have dropped in, and a blue dye could be added, to hide any discolouration which would have reduced the value of the clay.
Next, the slurry flowed into the settling pits and clear water was drained off as the clay dropped to the bottom over a number of days. Once the clay was the consistency of single cream, the slurry was run into the settling tanks and the process repeated until the slurry was as thick as clotted cream. This could be a slow process.
Finally, the ‘cream’ flowed or was trucked into the pan kiln. This was lined with porous pan tiles which allowed heat from flues beneath the floor to rise upward and dry out the clay. At least the pan tiles at Wheal Martyn were made from waste clay and sand, but we doubt this made much of a difference to the volume of waste material to be dicarded.
The pan kiln at Wheal Martyn is remarkably well preserved and imaginatively interpreted. It reminded Terroir of hand made brick works, where the craft and skills of the individual brick makers belies the external mayhem of clay winning outside. Similarly at Wheal Martyn, the pre-mechanised, human scale of the clay processing presented craft skills and human endeavour which stand at odds with the large scale business of hauling china clay out of the ground.
The final product (in block form, or packed in casks or sacks) was stored in the linhay (pronounced ‘linny’), before dispatch to customers by road (impacting on the bypass-less local towns) or rail.
Image right: China Clay History Society
The human element was largely made up of men and boys, although women were employed to scrape clean the bottom and sides of air dried clay blocks.
Images above: China Clay History Society
The techniques shown above did not last, and increased mechanisation did nothing to reduce the quantity and quality of waste, stacked around the clay pits.
Images above: China Clay History Society
The industry continues today, of course. Many Victorian companies amalgamated into larger units, but around 70 producers still existed prior to WWI. Three of the largest - West of England and Great Beam Clay Co, Martin Brothers, and the North Cornwall China Clay Co – were amalgamated in 1919 to become English China Clays and, through further mergers and reorganisations the company survived the lean times before and after WWII. In 1999, the core of the company was purchase by Imetal, now known as Imerys. It’s signs are everywhere throughout the Cornish China clay territories.
Attitudes to waste disposal and restoration are, however, finally changing.
The most famous restoration scheme – The Eden Project – opened in 2001: “We bought an exhausted, steep-sided clay pit 60 metres deep, with no soil, 15 metres below the water table, and essentially gave it life.” (https://www.edenproject.com/mission/our-origins). The projects mission is to “create a movement that builds relationships between people and the natural world to demonstrate the power of working together for the benefit of all living things”. It is a significant player in Cornish Tourism.
Schemes in other areas have been less ambitious but our overwhelming experience of the 2022 Cornish China Clay landscape is of gentler land forms, of colour schemes now in a palette of browns, greens and yellows, of native species, grassy areas and new woodlands. Of ‘come in’, rather than ‘keep out’. It’s not perfect. But words such as ‘healing’ and ‘biodiversity’ come to mind. The iconic Cornish Alps have largely gone but a symbolic sky tip or two remain, although these, too, are turning from grey and white, to brown and green.
Is it romantic yet? Terroir thinks not. But we are hopeful that, one day, derelict 21st century wind turbines will be considered romantic - that is if we and the planet make it that far.
The Pool of London
On crossing London Bridge, one of Terroir’s parents would always look east to see what shipping was in the ‘Pool’. The Pool of London was always a bit of a mystery to the offspring. It looked just like a normal stretch of tidal Thames to us. But for a woman who had commuted to work in the City of London before, during and after WWII, and who had watched the bustle and vibrancy of the Thames wharves and docks from the top of London buses, the Pool of London would always hold a special place in her Londoner’s heart.
More recently – much more recently - Terroir took a visit to the Tower of London to see how the Superbloom was coming on (image right). More of that in future blogs, but the walk along the north bank of the Pool, from the Tower of London to London Bridge was like stroll along a historical transect from the medieval to the modern.
The Pool of London played an integral part in the growth of the City of London and has a long history of commerce, crime and social issues. Wikipedia gives a good summary. Originally, the Pool of London was the name given to the stretch of the Thames along Billingsgate. This is the stretch you can see from London Bridge and where HMS Belfast is moored.
And this was where ‘all imported cargoes had to be delivered for inspection and assessment by Customs Officers, giving the area the Elizabethan name of "Legal Quays".’ (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pool_of_London and https://en.wikipedia.org)
London Bridge, itself, prevented shipping from going any further up river but, as both overseas and ‘coastal’ trade increased, the concept of the Pool spread downriver, eventually reaching the Rotherhithe/Limehouse area. By the end of the 18th Century, with the slave trade and Caribbean colonies in full swing, the Pool could no longer cope with the volume of trade and shipping, and the first, off-river dock was constructed specifically for the West Indian trade. Other off-river docks followed, of course. The whole maritime commercial area, including the Pool, remained viable right into the 1950s despite damage caused during the Blitz.
Terroir walked along the north bank of the Pool of London (now part of the modern Thames Path) from the south west corner of the Tower of London to London Bridge. The map extract, below, shows what it all looked like in 1873. The Great Ditch of the Tower of London is just visible on the right, London Bridge on the left.
All map extracts reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Scotland' https://maps.nls.uk/index.html
Sugar Quay Wharf
Known as the Wool Quay in the 13th century, this wharf was the location of a building which was key to the Port of London: a custom house. In this case it was used to collect duties on exported wool. There were a number of iterations of this Custom House: a new building, overseen by the then Lord High Treasurer, William Paulet, was built around 1559, but was destroyed in the Great Fire of London in 1666.
Christopher Wren designed the replacement, which was constructed in the early 1670s, but fire hit again in 1715, necessitating a fourth rebuild. This one managed to function, unsinged, until the early 19th century and then, yes, a fire started in the house keeper’s quarters where, apparently, both spirits and gunpowder were stored (really?) and Customs House No 4 exploded. And people criticise modern Health and Safety Regulations. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sugar_Quay
By 1934, Wikipedia reports that the Batavia Line, which ran a steam ship passenger service between Rotterdam and London, was berthing its ships here. In 1970, Terry Farrell designed an office building for Tate and Lyle, but the final break from both shipping and sugar came with its conversion to a mixed use development in the 20 teens. Or maybe that statement isn’t quite true: the developer – CPC – was owned by the Candy Brothers.
Custom House
Custom House No 4 was doomed before it exploded. London’s maritime trade was booming and a larger Custom House was commissioned for the site adjacent to the one described above. Bear Quay, Crown Quay, Dice Quay and Horner's Quay were all subsumed by the new build, leaving a single Custom House Quay or Wharf.
Designed by architect David Laing, the new Custom House was completed in 1817. The building contained warehouses and offices, and the basement cellars (fireproofed) were used to store wine and spirits seized by the revenue men (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Custom_House,_City_of_London).
The Custom House curse had yet to be appeased, however, and the building partially collapsed in 1825, when the timber pilings under the building caved in. Wikipedia reports that the building contractors “had grossly underestimated the cost of the work and had started to cut corners. The foundations were totally inadequate” and “questions were asked in Parliament”. Familiar? After rebuilding, no further disasters seem to have occurred, until the east wing was destroyed in the Blitz. It was later rebuilt behind a re-created historic façade.
The former Quays have gone but the building remains. It is listed grade I. Plans to convert the building into a hotel were rejected in 2020 and the project went to appeal early this year.
Billingsgate Market
As a market, Billingsgate started out as a general wholesale supplier of corn, coal, iron, wine, salt, pottery, fish and miscellaneous goods, and it wasn’t until the 16th century that it became for specifically associated with fish (https://www.cityoflondon.gov.uk/supporting-businesses/business-support-and-advice/wholesale-markets/billingsgate-market/history-of-billingsgate-market)
And it wasn’t until 1850 that the first market building was erected, to replace an array of market stalls and sheds. It quickly proved to be inadequate – this was the 19th century, after all, an era of constant change and expansion – and a new market building was erected in 1875, designed by City Architect Horace Jones and built by John Mowlem and Co.
Just as Covent Garden’s real estate was released when the Fruit and Vegetable Market moved to more spacious and accessible premises in 1974, so the fish market was removed to Docklands (the Isle of Dogs) in 1982. The Pool of London building – listed grade II - remains beside its Grade 1 Custom House neighbour, and was refurbished for office use by architects Richard Rogers. It is now a hospitality and events venue.
Grant’s Quay Wharf
We’ve called this section of the water front Grant’s Quay Wharf simply because this name features on one of the City of London’s signs.
From studying the historic maps – there is an excellent sequence at https://theundergroundmap.globalguide.org/article.html?id=34336&zoom=16&annum=2022 – this area appears to have resisted major redevelopment until the first half of the 20th century. 19th century maps appear to show a succession of narrow, bonded warehouses. Their northern elevations abut Lower Thames Street and cover the site of St Botolph's, Billingsgate, a church destroyed in the Great Fire of London and never rebuilt. To the south, the warehouses are just a road’s width away from the riverside quays and wharves with which they were intimately linked. Names include Fresh Wharf, Cox’s Quay, Hammonds Quay, Botolph Wharf, Nicholson’s Steam Packet Wharf, and at the eastern end next to Billingsgate Market, an ominously named residential street called Dark House Lane, which links to Summer’s Quay stairs.
By 1950, much has changed but the area still appears to be a working wharf. Not so today. The area is now a rather uncoordinated and largely uninspring development, which does little to reflect the lives and times of its riverside forebears.
Church of St Magnus the Martyr and London Bridge
Walking the Thames Path to London Bridge, you would hardly know that the parish church of St Magnus the Martyr is still squeezed in between the Bridge and the west end of the developments described above. As with St Botolph’s, St Magnus’ church was also destroyed in the Great Fire but was rebuilt by Wren in the 1670s and 80s.
Glance north as you approach the bridge and you will see the church spire fighting for vertical supremacy with the Monument, lamp posts and modern buildings.
The end of our historic transect reminds us of the importance of stairs in Thames-side life: stairs to reach the Watermen who ferried passengers to and fro, and up and down the river. Stairs which enabled mudlarking at low tide. And now a modern flight to enable Londoners and visitors to reach the Thames Path, its cafes, its views and its historic treasures.
Modern access between London Bridge and the northern riverside had been problematic for many years, but an elegant solution, in the form of a cantilevered, stainless steel, spiral staircase (designed by Bere:architects) was opened in 2016 and has revolutionised the Thames Path in this area. An honourable addition to the more traditional Thames stairs.
A Passage through Lyon
How much can you tell about a town through tourism?
When asked what we were going to do in Lyon, one of us replied, ‘sightseeing, eating and sleeping’. Another of us read a very out-of-date guide book before we left, but that was the sum total of our preparation.
So part of our plan for our two and two half days’ visit was made through the lens of the Tourist office, which provided us with maps, a tourist ‘access most areas’ card and a mini guide to what ‘Only Lyon’ suggested were the must-see sights. Thereafter it was all down to personal choice, based on the Tourist Office menu and our own particular interests. Did we achieve our goals and what did we learn about Lyon? As tourists we did well: ticks for enjoying ourselves, for sightseeing and for eating (as ever, sleeping was postponed). But what did we learn about Lyon?
Our first lesson is that some things in French Society haven’t changed. A lot of places were closed on Monday, and Tuesday wasn’t a great day for post pandemic museums either. So personal choice and the tourist map featured early: two wide, sinuous rivers, a lot of cityscape exploring and one enormous park.
That Lyon is central to France is pretty obvious from the map. So is the fact that it is on the confluence of two significant rivers – the Rhône, and its less well known, and harder to pronounce neighbour, the Saône. If we had gone to any of the five museums dedicated to the history of Lyon, including the specialist stuff on the Romans, the Gauls and Christianity, then one might miss the fact that around 29 BC Marcus Agrippa set up the extraordinary network of roads (the Via Agrippa) which connected Roman Lyon (known as Lugdunum) to pretty much every part of what is now France. This is ‘Asterix’ territory and one suspects that Obelix was giving Agrippa grief. We also suspect that the use of BC is no longer PC, but as Christianity was also an important part of Lyon’s history, I hope we will be forgiven. Today, Lyon is still a hugely significant administrative, economic and financial centre.
So our early walks through Lyon, dictated by the location of railway station, hotel, rivers and park introduced us to the eastern banks of the Rhone and the post medieval city. Here is grid pattern cityscape, divided into administrative arrondissements and smaller local communities with their own local characteristics. The built environment is dense and angular too, like closely spaced cardboard boxes on end, decorated in the classic style of French domestic architecture, with the occasional modern redevlopment. Small open spaces appear at fairly regular intervals but larger parks are few and far between.
Of course, the French are comfortable, and very creative, with ‘hard’ open spaces and we saw some well-used and much appreciated areas with minimal ‘soft’ landscape. We could understand why the riverside water play was closed, but its appeal to youngsters on a hot summer’s day was obvious.
The exception to the small city green space is, of course, the Parc de la Tête D’Or which sits in a curve of the Rhone to the north of the centre ville. A classic in European Park provision, this once private landscape was purchased in 1856 to create a ‘nouvel et vaste espace’ for the people of Lyon.
It took paysagiste Denis Bühler 5 years to create this ‘manifique parc à l’anglaise’. Its mix of wide grassy spaces, lake, lake side walks, woodlands, botanic gardens and small zoo provide an eclectic mélange of landscape and recreational options. Imagine our surprise when none of the cafes was open. The Swiss duo of Denis and his brother Eugène Bühler created parks throughout France in the middle and late 19th century, including Lyon’s Jardin des Chartreux on the left back of the Saône immediately to the north of Lyon’s old town.
Generations of fallow deer have grazed the Parc de la Tête D’Or and have now been joined by a small zoo including giraffes and a large number of rescue turtles (see images below). The variable beige colour of the turtles (row 2, centre image) is not natural but due to a heavy, overnight, fall of Saharan dust. Those that stayed out all night are rather obvious.
Park trees include a couple of massive Taxodium distichum (swamp cyress) with their characteristic ‘knees’ poking up along side the main trunk. Those planted so generously around the United States Embassy in London, are mere toddlers compared with these. Planes are a hall mark of the Park and one of the oldest has been retained as a natural sculpture, close to the lake. More traditional statues are also a feature, as are the splendid gates which lead out on to the Avenue de Grande Bretagne. Madame is probably just doing some stretches (bottom row, right) but we prefer to view her as a modern day ‘Asterixe’
The narrow Presqu'île between the Rhône and the Saône (below left) forms a long narrow tongue dividing the mass of modern day Lyon on the east bank of the Rhône from the older medieval town on the west bank of the Saône. It is a busy area, and hosts the extensive open space of the Place Bellecour (home to the Tourist Office and an equestrian statue of Louis XIV, below right), Lyon’s other large railway station (Gare de Perrache), and numerous churches, museums, public buildings, cafes and restaurants. According to the tourist map, pretty much the whole area is designated as a Shopping Zone. This is tourism, I suppose.
The southern tip of the Presqu'île lies at the confluence of the two rivers. It’s somewhere you feel should go, but if your tourist programme doesn’t feature the Aquarium and the two museums located in this area, we get the feeling that it’s slightly off the beaten track. Most tourists will do as we did and press on over the River Saône to enter Vieux Lyon.
We mentioned in last week’s bog that Lyon is a silk city and it all started in this medieval town, perched under the hills which pinch the Saône into a tight curving valley before it finally exits into the Rhône. Here in Vieux Lyon are all the characteristics of an old town – narrow winding streets, small squares, medieval buildings, quaint shops and a mass of cafes and restaurants full of visitors.
Here too are Lyon’s famous Traboules, covered passageways which ran through the buildings and internal courtyards to link one street with another. Thought to have been first constructed in the 4th century, they provided short cuts to the river, to collect water, and later to transport textiles from workshops to merchants and ships by or on the river. They were probably use for silk workers’ meetings and, later, by the Lyon Resistance during WWII. They are spooky, often dark, and are intimidating to people (like us) who have a deeply ingrained sense of where we can and can’t go. Despite looking so private and providing intimate access to residents’ front doors, they are freely accessible to all.
Silk became a significant part of the Lyon economy from the 15th century, but the industry waxed and waned for the next 500 years. The Silk Workers House, one museum we did manage to gain entry to, charts the history and technology of silk and has an extraordinary working display of the Jacquard loom which Wikipedia describes as ‘a mechanical loom that rapidly industrialized the process of producing silk’. Although the brocades and damasks produced by this method are stunning and the technology feels way ahead of its time – a punch card system installed on the top of a wooden loom, dictating the pattern to the weaver – the rate of production was around a third of a metre a day, and the financial risk lay entirely with the weaver.
We also went to the Lumière Cinema Museum, the Resistance and Deportation History Centre and the the Fine Arts Museum.
But there are huge holes in our knowledge of, and appreciation of, the city. Just a peek at the silk industry, no knowledge of Lyon’s printing heritage and, more to the point, a complete blank on modern architecture, the docks, the modern industrial areas and the banlieue.
Can you get under the skin of a city as a tourist? Of course not. Can you have a good time? You certainly can. Are we better informed about France’s third city? Well, just a bit. Will we need to go back? I hope so.
Oh yes – and the food. I don’t believe that French cuisine has declined. But I do now believe that British cooking has got a whole lot better.
Only Lyon
Yes, we’re sorry, our first trip abroad for nearly two and a half years and we only managed to get as far as Lyon.
In fact, this modest and self-deprecating blog title is actually Lyon’s badge of choice to head up its tourism offer. Why has Lyon – usually regarded as France’s third city – chosen such an unassuming logo? Of course ‘only’ is an anagram of Lyon. But it still didn’t make much sense to us. Perhaps we are supposed to think ‘only in Lyon will you find …’? On translating it back into French, however, we came up with ‘Uniquement Lyon’. Loses the anagram but we do feel it sells the destination a whole lot better. Stick with what you know? Translations can land you in trouble.
So what did we find in Only Lyon? Here are some of the quirkier bits.
We arrived by train. No not this station ….
…. but a much newer one where the ‘Sortie’ currently discharges you straight into a chaotic building site .
Only Lyon then delivers you into the modern hell of a Westfield shopping centre.
It was a bad start, but things did improve. Lyon’s plane trees, for instance, are magnificent and, in our view, a really distinguishing feature of the city. Perhaps Plane Lyon instead of Only Lyon? But to British eyes, they do look as though they have been high pruned by the giraffes in the city zoo. There is also a very tall graffiti artist - or a very talented giraffe.
Younger plantings and a greater variety of species are beginning to take their place alongside the plane avenues. The city centre is densely built-up, but the rivers Rhône and Saône do provide opportunities to increase urban greening…
… as do the house boats, which line the river banks (below).
Choice of species can be interesting (Lyon is not alone in that of course). Spring is an exciting time in this Lyon suburb and the photograph (right) really doesn’t do justice to the migraine inducing colour combination. Further up the road, there is also an office block which does a thorough job of obscuring the views of the old town, below.
Labelling of larger new specimen trees appears in some places: usually informative (below left and centre) but not exclusively so (below right) and no, it’s not an avacado tree.
Another thing which Lyon does well is provision for two wheelers. Bicycles and electric scooters whizz around the city, often with children on the back (cycles), or in front (on the scooters). When the speed limit for the whole city drops to 30 k/h (around 20 mph) on the 1st April this year, two wheelers will have even more reason to smile. And again, there are some delightful consequences.
But our favourite quirky surprise, by far, is Ememem and ‘flacking’. Thanks to Wikipedia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ememem) we now know that Ememem are a plural entity, live in Lyon, and go round at dead of night to create mosaics in cracked pavements and facades. ‘Flacking’, apparently derives from ‘flaquer’ (meaning a puddle, presumably linked to the holes in streets which Ememem’s artworks fill). In Lyon, the artist(s) have been dubbed le chirurgien des trottoirs, or the pavement surgeons and ememem refers to the sound of their moped. It’s a great city vibe.
They have also worked in Barcelona, Madrid, Turín, Oslo, Melbourne, Aberdeen and York, so you probably know all about them.
We will return to ‘Only Lyon’ in a future blog but we leave you today with a very Lyonnais poster which made us laugh out loud. Lyon was once a silk town (stand aside Macclesfield and Leek) and is rightly proud of its textile heritage. But it does need some linguistic help.
Collateral Consequences and the Brown Hart Gardens
During our research for the blog on Ukraine, we came across the quirky Brown Hart Gardens in London’s salubrious Mayfair. It’s just opposite the Ukrainian RC Cathedral, in Duke Street. For those of you who were watching television in the 1970’s, this is Duchess of Duke Street territory. For those of you who weren’t, here is a helpful link (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Duchess_of_Duke_Street).
Wowed by the colourful, elevated and peaceful nature of the Gardens, we spent some time exploring and had lunch in the café. The sun was shining and the south facing benches quickly became popular. Others, like us, took photographs of the Cathedral. Unsurprisingly, in this area, it is part of the Grosvenor Estate, but why is it raised up, what is underneath it, why is it a garden and how did it become what it is today? The story of its Victorian beginnings and subsequent development would seem familiar to any design professional working now. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.
Duke Street was not always the up market area it is today, despite its proximity to fashionable Grosvenor Square. The story of the Gardens appears to start in the late 19th century and a national outcry over the condition of working-class housing. In the Duke Street area of Mayfair, the Duke of Westminster was working with the Improved Industrial Dwellings Company (IIDC), to upgrade working-class living conditions on the Grosvenor estate.
The IIDC is variously described as a commercial company (www.nationalarchives.gov.uk) and a philanthropic model dwellings company (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Improved_Industrial_Dwellings_Company), which developed high density housing blocks for artisans. Either way, the company needed to turn a profit and at Duke Street seems to have achieved this via a strict code of conduct for tenants, and reduced ground rents from the Duke. References to the building designs being developed by a surveyor rather than architects, raised a wry Terroir smile.
For fascinating and more detailed stuff on finances, planning, urban design and other aspects of social housing provision around Duke Street, we recommend an absorbing article at https://www.waymarking.com/waymarks/WMD779_1892_Moore_Buildings_Gilbert_Street_London_UK.
In addition to better housing, the Duke of Westminster also wished to improve the new estate with a coffee tavern, possible to counteract the influence of the numerous public houses in the area, and a spacious community garden to occupy an entire block between Brown Street and Hart Street.
The 1870 Ordnance Survey map (below), illustrates the high density townscape prior to redevelopment. The red ring sourrounds the Brown and Hart Street block. You may be able to pick out the two public houses within this area and a further three within a minute’s walk.
Reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Scotland' https://maps.nls.uk/index.html
The new garden was designed by Joseph Meston (assistant to Robert Marnock of gardenesque school fame) and was constructed in 1889. It appears on the Ordnance Survey plan of 1895 (below), complete with drinking fountain and urinal. We have yet to locate the position of the coffee tavern; if you know where it was, please let us know. Only one public house appears to remain.
The whole housing development was by built out by 1892; Peabody is now the social housing custodian. The Congregational Chapel to the north east of the new garden (built 1891, designed by Alfred Waterhouse of Natural History Museum and Manchester Town Hall Fame), was sold to the Ukranian Catholic Church in 1967.
Reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Scotland' https://maps.nls.uk/index.html
The original 1889 garden was clearly at ground level, but survived in that state for little more than a decade, thanks to the Westminster Electricity Supply Corporation. Having worked in the area in the 1890s, the Corporation approached the Grosvenor Estate again to build an electricity substation on the site of the gardens. The proposal involved a large, 7’ high transformer chamber plus housing, with the garden relocated on the roof. Eyebrows were raised, it seems, but complaints had also been growing about the garden, including reference to “disorderly boys”, “verminous women” and “tramps”, and agreement to develop was reached in 1902. “The substation was completed in 1905 to the design of C. Stanley Peach in a Baroque style from Portland stone featuring a pavilion and steps at either end, a balustrade and Diocletian windows along the sides to light the galleries of the engine rooms”. (https://www.waymarking.com/waymarks/WMPN21_Duke_Street_Electricity_Sub_station_Brown_Hart_Gardens_London_UK).
Peach specialised in the design of electricity structures, although it seems that the Grosvenor Estate surveyor had quite a lot to do with realising the final configuration of this one. Again, I suspect that we have all seen dramas like that. It is, however, a quite remarkable - and adaptable - structure despite urban clutter disguising some of its grandeur when viewed from the east (below right).
The garden was replaced as promised, with paving and trees in tubs, and was re-opened in 1906. Little seems to be recorded of its 20th century story and it was closed in the 1980s “by the then lessees, the London Electricity Board”, reopening again, briefly, in 2007.
Brown Hart Gardens’ current appearance, described by Grosvenor Estates as “A rejuvenated oasis in the heart of London” is due to – guess what – another regeneration scheme for this part of Mayfair. We are not knocking this; how can an area, last subject to a major refurb in the 1880s, still be fit for use in the 21st century?
The brief, to “rejuvenate a public space over a Grade II listed substation” and “create and manage a beautiful and flexible space to benefit the people who live in, work in, or visit the area” (https://www.bdp.com/en/projects/a-e/brown-hart-gardens/) appears to have been achieved, if one can make that judgement based on a single visit. BDP, a multidisciplinary design consultancy were commissioned to undertake the project and completed the gardens in 2013. Unless there has been another revamp which we don’t know about, it’s wearing well and is beautifully maintained.
Approaching from the Ukrainian end, so to speak, you can be forgiven for thinking that the Gardens are a lofty children’s play area. Climbing through the primary colour tubes to deck level, however, you discover that the space has been designed to appeal to the inner child of all ages - even those who just wish to sit and contemplate.
The piped swirl of colour with its convolvulus flowers looks complicated, but is actually very simple to negotiate or to enter if you want to sit in the middle of it. Once through, the key elements are wooden planting cubes dotted like a board game over the limestone paving, plenty of seats to await your turn to play, a modern café at one end and a discrete but effective water feature which has replaced one of the original stone seats.
Apparently the perimeter planters contain lights and power units and the central planters and seats can be moved around to create different patterns or simply to capture your opponent’s combative rook.
Below: a selection of surprising, attractive and amusing planters.
The overall effect in early spring sunshine is playful, relaxing, surprising, and delightfully isolated from the hurly burly below and beyond. It is a place to sit and read, admire the view, enjoy the plants, talk to neighbours, meet friends, watch the water flow and recharge the batteries (pun intended).
The cafe suits the space pretty well, but that inverted roof angle? Fine when viewed from the gardens but does the side elevation really work with Peach’s
pavillion canopies!?
SUPPORT UKRAINE
“Every day checking on the news with dread in case things are even worse... Feel so helpless.” MT
It is tempting to end the blog at this point, with these simple messages and images. But the issues relating to Ukraine and Russia are complex (what an understatement) and deserve at least a modicum of discussion.
Terroir has no specialist knowledge on the geography, history or politics of Ukraine. We have not even been there, although we have visited Bulgaria, Romania and, briefly, Russia (just Moscow and St Petersburg). So nothing qualifies us to talk with any sort of first-hand experience. A review of even the briefest histories of Ukraine and Russia has left us overwhelmed and confused. So what to do?
We decided to approach friends and family via email or WhatsApp. We asked if the recipient had been to Ukraine and what they felt we should do about current situation, either individually or as a nation. By this means we contacted well over 70 people. Thank you to everyone we pestered and a special thank you to those who responded in time to influence the content of this blog.
The unanimous suggestion for individual action was GIVE MONEY
. The Disasters Emergency Commitee (DEC) link is below but there are plenty of other options.
Image right: poster on door of Ukranian RC Cathedral, Duke Street, London
Other suggestions, in order of popularity, were:
More sanctions: there were many references to gas and oil but some went further - “By this [sanctions] I mean severing aLL trade with Russia (and not just the bits that suit us) … . Of course this would raise prices and probably shortages here but that's a price worth paying I think” TT. “My biggest worry is that the issue will fade into the background not to mention the people who will not make a sacrifice of their own to help the people of Ukraine (Higher prices for food, fuel, etc).” MK
Refugees: speed up/simplify visa applications system for refugees (“It would be nice if our government could stop being such bastards over visas“ PT), take in more refugees and help and support the refugees who get to the UK. “I think that, as a country, we would like to think that we will give a warm welcome to refugees but the actuality throughout history has not been at all the same“ DG. “We could have a family here. Plenty of room but they need their own country.” PM
Action against Russian money in UK: “deployment of the wealth of oligarchs supporting Putin to benefit the people of Ukraine” RW
Send supplies: send weapons; send items which Ukrainians actually need; sending money is more efficient.
NATO: don’t get NATO involved; get NATO involved in humanitarian work
No fly zone: impose and enforce.
Communication: strengthen diplomatic links; communicate with Russia via channels the people would trust. Works both ways though: “[Russian friend produced an article by] a famous journalist [John Pilger] which basically said everything that was happening could be laid at the feet of the West. I’m sure there is some truth in what he says but whatever the evils and decadence and weakness and mistakes of the West, there is surely only one person responsible for what is happening and that is Putin.” SC
Prayer: keep Ukraine in our thoughts/prayers
Safe Corridors: “probably wishful thinking, but create or improve safe corridors which lead to the places where Ukrainians wish to go” HN
British Government: all comments critical and mostly unprintable
Putin: again, largely unprintable but – “Putin is a man obsessed surrounded by brutal people who are keeping him there in their own self interest.” PM; “abolish toxic masculinity” RW.
There are other views though: “I cannot help but feel sorry for the people of Russia whose country will carry the guilt for Putin’s actions.” DG. “The Russians we know in the UK are as shocked as we are.” LD
Talking to others with a knowledge of Russian history, Terroir has begun to realise that the world cannot afford to ignore Russia’s feelings of insecurity, an emotion which often underpins antisocial actions. Terroir put this to a friend who has visited both Ukraine and Russia on numerous occasions, and we are deeply indebted to his response, excerpts of which we reproduce below:
“I'm trying to keep in touch with my Russian friends - those I have heard of I am sure are horrified about what is going on, although they are expressing it somewhat obliquely - partly I suspect because it’s very dangerous to say outright that the war is wrong, and partly because that's what Russians do anyway! But my friends are intellectuals and western looking, mostly in St Petersburg, the " window on the west", [and] have visited US, UK and other European countries - if they were English they would read the Guardian. Much harder to tell what the poorly educated Russian in the heartland thinks, who only get their information from Russia's answer to the Daily Mail and Fox News.
I think the importance of Russian insecurity, even paranoia, is not understood or discussed enough in the West. Anyone over 40 who grew up in Russia, grew up being told that the West were nasty imperialists out to do down the USSR. This was the world Putin was brought up in - he was in the KGB … . Russia went from being the top dog in an empire covering a third of the world to a single country with a collapsed economy. I remember when in the 1990's we were celebrating Russian Independence Day my friend Yuri, then in his 60's said ‘Independent from whom?’, even though he had been a dissident because of his interest in psychoanalysis and as he put it to me once " had been treated as a non-person"
In the 1990's and 2000's The West reached out to the Baltic states and Eastern European countries, but much less so to Russia - why did we not invite them to join NATO in 1995? Someone said that Russia now must feel as people in the UK would have felt in the late 20th century if Germany, Belgium and the Netherlands had all joined the Warsaw pact.
Going further back Russia has nearly always been governed by autocrats who combined incompetence with malevolence - Putin is in the tradition of most of the 19th and early 20th century Tsars, Lenin and Stalin.
Although most of the Ukrainians I met were proudly Ukrainian … the way the Government has flipped between Russia leaning and West leaning in the last 30 years suggests that there are probably divisions within the population - and we know there are many in Crimea and the East who want to be Russian.
None of this excuses Putin but it might help to understand what is going on.” https://sites.google.com/site/peterdtoon/
Help Ukraine to a good future.
Please donate to https://donation.dec.org.uk/ukraine-humanitarian-appeal
© Y Fontanel
Tinners
Four of us were gathered together this week (celebrating St David’s Day), and one of us asked what Cornwall meant to each of us.
Here are the responses:
Tintagel Castle, The Eden Project and St Mawes
China clay moonscapes and clotted cream
Cliffs and wild coasts, holiday homes and Posy Simmonds cartoons
Arsenic
Arsenic: how very perceptive.
As our collective list shows, Cornwall is good on memorable and iconic landscapes. Go to the home page of the Cornwall Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty and you will see a moody and romantic image of a tin mine engine house and stack, perched on the edge of a rugged coastal cliffs (https://www.cornwall-aonb.gov.uk/). These structures are symbolic of ‘an extended period of industrial expansion and prolific innovation’ (https://whc.unesco.org/en/list/1215/) which contributed enormously, not only to the landscape of Cornwall, but also to the industrial revolution, the British economy, to mining around the world and, of course, climate change.
The long term impact of mining and industrialisation on the planet was probably impossible to imagine during the heady years of technological development, sizeable profit margins and world-wide influence. But there were other issues, however, which could and should have been recognised at the time. Arsenic was just one of these.
Let’s go back to the beginning. Mining has a very long history in Cornwall, probably starting in the Bronze Age. Medieval mining of tin was so significant in the south west that separate Stannary Courts and Parliaments were set up in Devon and Cornwall in the early 14th century. The UNESCO world heritage site ‘Cornish and West Devon Mining Landscape’ (granted in 2006) focuses on the period from 1700 to 1914, and specifically mentions the significance of the ‘remains of mines, engines houses, smallholdings, ports, harbours, canals, railways, tramroads, and industries allied to mining, along with new towns and villages’. Of such fragments are romantic landscapes created.
Terroir’s induction into Cornish Tin Mining was provided by the Geevor Tin Mine (https://geevor.com/), on the north Cornish coast, near the villages of Pendeen and Boscaswell. It is part of the St Just Mining Area and the site is now run by Pendeen Community Heritage. Ironically, Geevor is a ‘modern’ mine established around 1906 and expanded significantly after World War I. The mine closed in 1990 and the pumps, which drained the mine, were switched off in 1991. Despite its modernity by UNESCO standards, the mine describes itself as the ‘Key Centre within the Cornish Mining World Heritage Site’. But, of course, if there were plenty of earlier mines remaining, with which to interpret Cornwall’s mining history, there might be no need for a World Heritage Site.
It took us two mornings to get our heads around the vocabulary of developers, stopers and samplers; of cross cuts, lodes, drives, pillars and box holes; of wagons, locomotives, rocker shovels, skips and, of course the grizzly. We learnt to interpret the photographs of young men, stripped to the waste, undertaking gruelling, skilled, manual labour in hot, deep, cramped, under-sea, mining levels. We began to understand the efficiencies brought by Trevithick’s steam technology (in, for instance, economics of production, and in underground safety through water pumping, ventilation and personnel transport) and the increased impact of steam-driven mining on Cornwall and around the world. We got a handle on the complexities of processing the ore to a marketable product which could be sold on to manufacturers. And we began to understand the cost in human life in winning, processing and supporting the entire industry.
Below:
Upper and middle row - a historical range of mining technology
Lower row - views of the Geevor Mine processing area
Below left: a model of the 20th century shaft and winding gear as it once was, and will be again. Below right: the winding gear currently under repair.
Despite this growing understanding of mining issues, the landscape around Geevor Mine seemed surprisingly innocent.
But, as a guide explained to us, the expanses of waste gravels and green fields below us would once have been occupied by extraction paraphenalia and a shanty town housing miners and all the ancillary workers who serviced the pre 20th century mines – candle makers, charcoal-burners, carpenters, smiths, smelters, carters, chandlers, shop keepers, ale-house keepers, and so on. Even in the 20th century (below right), it would have been a busy area.
The stonehenge style kit on the left, by the way, is the remains of the stamps, the steam-powered ore crushers which would have thudded relentlessy, 24 hours a day.
All the rest is gone now, leaving just these romantic ruins…
But how wonderful to be working in an industry which leaves no massive scars, no starkly white China clay pyramids, no coal heaps, no shale bings, no slag heaps. All the ‘arisings’ from tin mining can be sold on as aggregate for construction, can they not? Well, maybe only after technological developments made it worth reprocessing the waste rock heaps for the tin they still contained, while chucking the unsaleable rubbish into the sea.
And we are not just talking tin here. Tin and iron come up as an oxide, accompanied by sulphide minerals such as copper, zinc, lead, bismuth, antimony and, yes, the mineral beloved of murder mysteries, arsenic.
Arsenic became a saleable bi-product of tin mining and, in the 19th century, was processed by burning in a calciner which trapped the arsenic as soot. Children were often employed to scrape it out of the chamber and chimney. Our guide explained that despite wearing an early forerunner of PPE, most of these children never lived beyond their teens. Miners’ life expectancy was also short – perhaps into their twenties and thirties. It seems likely that, in these polluted and impoverished living conditions, a woman’s life expectancy was also limited. As so often, our romantic landscapes are built on the problems of the past.
And you still want to know what a grizzly is? It’s a set of parallel steel bars used to sieve out the large chunks of ore. Gravity sent the small stuff through the bars into the skip loading boxes below. The grizzly man had to break up the larger stuff with a hammer.
Lighthouse Lizard
Cornwall is famous for its stories but, as with all good tales, they change with the passing of time. Even the Cornish Wreckers are now being subjected to rehabilitation, as Terroir discovered on a visit to the Lizard Lighthouse.
There’s a lot going on at the Lizard Peninsula. Three main landowners (National Trust, Cornwall Wildlife Trust, Natural England) and an absence of fences, enhance the feeling of a windblown wilderness. It’s host to a large, if somewhat fragmented National Nature Reserve, forms an important part of the equally fragmented Cornwall Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty and is fringed with crashing seas, rocks, cliffs and, for those with a head for heights, the South West Coast Path. Lizard Point is also the southern-most tip of Britain and home to our southern-most lighthouse - and self-catering holiday let.
Our visit to the lighthouse was made the more dramatic by being sandwiched between storms Eunice and Franklin. You would think that there would be nothing much to blow over but even Trinity House does overgrown suburban windbreaks.
The first Lizard lighthouse was completed in 1619 (https://www.trinityhouse.co.uk/lighthouses-and-lightvessels/lizard-lighthouse), over a decade before warning braziers were constructed on the South Foreland in Kent, overlooking the Goodwin Sands (https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/south-foreland-lighthouse/features/the-history-of-the-lighthouse-) and many years before the first Eddystone light was operative in 1699 (https://www.britannica.com/topic/Eddystone-Lighthouse-Eddystone-Rocks-English-Channel).
This early lighthouse was built by one John Killigrew who, despite opposition from local villagers (who foresaw a steep decline in income from shipwrecks), was granted a patent to construct a warning of hazardous waters, provided that the light was extinguished at the approach of ‘the enemy’. It was described as being, ‘a great benefit to mariners’, but as the ship owners refused to contribute to its upkeep, the bankrupt Killigrew was forced to demolish his philanthropic venture some 20 years later.
Peter Stanier’s ‘Cornwall’s Industrial Heritage’ notes that it was a “private lighthouse … opposed by Trinity House and local wreckers.” Trinity House says, “Many stories are told of the activities of wreckers around our coasts, most of which are grossly exaggerated, but small communities occasionally and sometimes officially benefited from the spoils of shipwrecks, and petitions for lighthouses were, in certain cases, rejected on the strength of local opinion; this was particularly true in the South West of England”. How tactful (Terroir’s highlighting). On this subject, we can also recommend a ‘Stories in Stone’ video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BdKHi4JYrag.
Whatever the reason, subsequent lighthouse applications failed until, in 1748, Trinity House supported local landowner Thomas Fonnereau, in a successful lighthouse bid. The building (in operation by 1752) consisted of two towers with a cottage between them, which had a window facing each tower. Coal fires were lit on the towers, and required bellows-blowers to keep the fires burning brightly; if the fires dimmed, an overseer in the cottage would encourage their endeavours with a blast from a cow horn.
Trinity House took over responsibility for the lights in 1771, and, in 1811, replaced the coal fires with oil lights. Three additional cottages were also constructed in 1845. But the biggest change occurred with the construction of an engine room, in 1874, using “caloric engines and dynamos” to power the light and a new fog horn. Even more staff were required so more cottages followed. In 1903, a high powered rotating carbon arc light was installed on the east tower, thus eliminating the need for any light on the west tower. The arc light was replaced with an electric filament lamp in 1936. LEDs will follow soon. Automation arrived in 1998, and the resident lighthouse keepers worked their final shift.
The engine room is now a Heritage Centre, thanks to the Heritage Lottery Fund. Exhibits range from, unsurprisingly, engineering and lamps (see below), to communications, living and working conditions and a soft play area for trial constructions of your own lighthouse tower.
The tour of the lighthouse is a must, led by Hamish the cat (no longer the kitten as noted in his job description) and assisted by a guide who one suspects is descended from those who “officially benefited from the spoils of shipwrecks”, certainly knew the light house keepers, and came suitably attired in hat, coat and bright red Wellington boots. She entertained and informed an assorted rabble of adults, children and adolescent cat, with delightful and diverting composure.
Right: Puss-in-carrier and Wonder-Women-Guide-in-Boots
The lighting system currently consists of the most magnificent four panel rotating optic which was installed in 1903. These magnificent panels, framed in Cornish granite, and, according to Wonder-Woman-Guide, resting in a tank of mercury, rotate continuously. To non-physicists like Terroir, the optics seem to represent some of the best and simplest of art nouveau, but presumably this is merely an illusion based on association with the date they were installed. We were also captivated by our guide’s allusion to the history which these lenses would have illuminated, including the passage of the Titanic on her way to meet her iceberg fate.
Such was the intensity of the light, that the rotating beam provided night long illumination, upsetting both the local ecology and the local inhabitants. As a result, a blackout was provided for the lantern room window closest to the village.
The change to electric filament lamps also allows for a simple back-up, should the ‘duty’ lamp fail before it is due to be changed. If you peer closely at the image (right) you may be able to detect a vertical lamp (the ‘duty’ lamp, in Terroir parlance) and the horizontal back up lamp.
Since automation, the back up lamp can be raised into position remotely, by the Trinity House depot in Harwich. A further back up is also available for the ultimate unexpected event. A couple of other items, no longer required but still in situ, are illustrated below.
And why does the optic rotate continuously? We have heard at least two convincing explanations: due to the structure of the lenses, a static optic, bathed in sunlight, could cause a pretty nasty fire. In addition, an optic system which has been in operation continuously since 1903, just might fail to start again.
Southern-most tip of Britain. Southern-most light house. But what about those holiday cottages? The southern-most crown is claimed by the nearby, converted Lloyds’ signal station, built in 1872 to provide communications between passing shipping and Lloyds of London (white building, just visible, right). But six of the Lighthouse cottages are also holiday lets, available via the National Trust. Terroir feels that the ‘most southerly status’ is probably theirs.
Memorial Landscapes
Early in 2014, the then Prime Minister, David Cameron, set up a Holocaust Commission, to “ensure that the memory and the lessons of the Holocaust are never forgotten and that the legacy of survivors lives on for generation after generation“. https://assets.publishing.service.gov.uk/government/uploads/system/uploads/attachment_data/file/398645/Holocaust_Commission_Report_Britains_promise_to_remember.pdf
The brief was threefold: to create a striking and prominent new national memorial, to collect and record the testimony of the diminishing numbers of holocaust survivors, and to create a world class learning centre to enable others to understand and learn from that legacy.
Led by Mick (Sir Michael) Davis, the Commission’s report was published in 2015 and suggested three potential locations for a memorial and learning centre. These were The Imperial War Museum London, Potters Field (a site between Tower Bridge and the former London City Hall) and a site on Millbank, close to Tate Britain. The blue touch paper had been lit. The debate on where and what the new national memorial should be, has been raging ever since.
In 2016, and seemingly out of nowhere, Victoria Tower Gardens, immediately to the south of the Houses of Parliament, was put forward as a possible Holocaust Memorial site.
After an international design competition, the commission was awarded, unanimously, to a team led by Adjaye Associates and Ron Arad Architects. This was in September 2017.
The design - a massive line up of 23 bronze fins - was heavily criticised for, amongst other things, its size, its dominance over its setting and also because it looked remarkably similar to the design Adjaye Associates had submitted for Canada's National Holocaust Monument (it didn’t win).
Above - visualisation of Adjaye Associates’s design in situ at Victoria Tower Gardens
The idea of placing the monument in Victoria Tower Gardens (a mere 2.5 ha of well used public park) created a veritable storm of comment and criticism from all quarters.
As you can imagine, the planning process was a nightmare. A planning application was submitted at the end of 2018, followed by revisions in 2019. The application was subsequently ‘called in’ for a public inquiry, immediately before Westminster City Council’s planning meeting - where the application was unanimously refused. The public inquiry was held (remotely) in 2020 and, following the Inspector’s recommendation, planning permission was finally granted by Communities Secretary Robert Jenrick MP, in July 2021. By the September, The London Gardens Trust had launched a challenge on the basis that decision-makers failed to properly consider the impacts of the development (https://londongardenstrust.org/campaigns/victoria-tower-gardens/). The resulting Judicial Review will take place next week on the 22nd and 23rd of February.
Let’s take a look at the Gardens. Victoria Tower Gardens are designated Grade II on the Historic England Register of Parks and Gardens (https://historicengland.org.uk/listing/the-list/list-entry/1000845?section=official-listing). After construction of the Houses of Parliament, the site of the park was ‘occupied by wharves, a cement works, an oil factory, and flour mills’. Terroir can imagine that this was felt to be an inappropriate neighbour to Barry and Pugin’s Parliamentary construction and, by 1879, money had been found to lay out a public park.
Both images reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Scotland' https://maps.nls.uk/index.html
Let’s take a walk. At around 2.5 ha (6 acres) it is extraordinary what elements are contained within it, and what socially valuable functions it provides.
From a distance, and dwarfed by Parliament’s Victoria Tower, it appears to be small, flat and grassy. Perhaps the ideal space for a physically large memorial of international and historic significance.
But approaching over Lambeth Bridge towards the south end of the park, its true values begin to unfold.
First up is the playground, in use even on a chilly, February, term time weekday morning. From the play equipment (see right hand images below) this is, obviously, Horseferry Playground!
Beyond the slide and half submerged horses, the Gardens open out onto a wide, grassy space, framed by statuesque plane trees and book-ended by stunning vistas of Parliament. Surely the perfect spot for a memorial? The size of the proposed memorial structure is such that this ‘space’ and the views to it, from it and within it, would be dominated by the giant bronze fins. Terroir suggests that the Victoria Tower Gardens would become the Holocaust Memorial Apron, no longer a park in its own right, and cut off from the symbol of democracy which gave birth to the park. In other words, a piece of green heritage would be destoyed to create an, albeit very significant, memorial. Which should take priority? Well, the Holocaust Memorial doesn’t have to go here. Victoria Tower Gardens, by definition, does.
The first three images (above) reveal the Victoria Tower and Houses of Parliament in all their glory. Already the view has been compromised by the low level Education Centre, with its station platform outline - alien to the pattern and shapes of the architecture behind it and only slightly mitigated by its green roof. The fourth view (right) look south towards the Buxton Memorial and the apex of the triangular park. All views would be obliterated or radically changed if the Holocaust Memorial was built here.
But, I hear you cry, it’s just a small area of lawn, with hardly anyone using it. Remember this a February morning. Think about spring lunchtimes; sunny after school time; sun bathing weekends; evening promenades; a space for tourists, workers, local inhabitants, politicians, school children, teenagers, the retired, dog walkers, strollers. It’s not just the London Gardens Trust which is opposing this proposal. Take a look at the Save Victoria Tower Gardens Park website (https://www.savevictoriatowergardens.co.uk/), or the Thorney Island Society (https://thethorneyislandsociety.org.uk/ttis/). This is a much loved and well used park. Sufficient size for its current community? A tranquil space? Think what it would be like with the addition of the significant number of visitors likely to be attracted to a Holocaust Memorial of the proposed scale and significance.
The adjacent Thames (above) adds much to the Gardens. The waterscape becomes an intrinsic part of the park itself - including the views outward to London landmarks - but also makes the open space feel larger and the Embankment, with its mature plane trees, provides a seductive promenade and sitting area.
The park planting, although not ‘in your face’ spectacular, no doubt provides all round seasonal delight. A glimpse of February’s charms (below) was very welcome.
But wait a minute - isn’t this a Memorial Park already? Indeed it is. There are three memorials located here and all touch on human rights and democracy.
The Buxton Memorial Fountain (left) commemorates the emancipation of slaves and the contribution of some key anti-slavery campaigners. Designed by Samuel Sanders Teulon, it was first installed on the edge of Parliament Square in 1865, removed in 1949 and finally reinstated in Victoria Tower Gardens in 1957. The base is granite and limestone, and the mosaic decoration and enamelled roof are, in Terroir’s view, particularly attractive.
The Burghers of Calais (right), a cast of Rodin’s powerful 1889 sculpture, despicts the six leading citizens of Calais who agreed, in 1347, to surrender the keys of the town, and their own lives, to Edward III in return for an end to King Edward’s 11 month siege, and sparing the lives of the rest of the town’s people.
The story goes that the Burghers’ lives were also spared by the intervention of Edward’s Queen, Philippa of Hainault. The original scupture is in Calais, of course, but this is one of four subsequent castings, which was bought by the National Art Collection Fund in 1911. Rodin is said to have visited London to advise on where it should be placed (https://www.royalparks.org.uk/parks/victoria-tower-gardens/things-to-see-and-do/burghers-of-calais).
Tucked in a corner, under the shadow of British democracy, stands the memorial to Emmeline Pankhurst and her daughter Christabel. Surprisingly - perhaps suspiciously - modest, it is, nethertheless, a place to pause, to consider the treatment of the suffragettes, and to honour their achievements.
There are two possible ways forward in this Memorial siting dilemma. One is to move the Memorial site elsewhere, and a prime location would seem to be the Imperial War Museum London. The other is to significantly reduce the above ground impact of the Memorial and continue at the same site. This will not solve all the problems, nor will it satisfy many protestors, but Hal Moggridge, who gave evidence at the public inquiry, regarding the potential harm of the proposal, has drawn up an alternative scheme to demonstrate that a lighter touch is possible. The scheme is illustrated below.
Both images © H Moggridge
Having more than one alternative to a disputed proposal can often inspire greater confidence when searching, or fighting, for a better option.